In the Balance
by mswainwright
Summary: Just who is Tom Branson? This story explores how and why the character comes to DA, what he's seeking and what he ultimately discovers. It begins just before epi 4 S1. I don't own these characters, but am just inspired by them. Enjoy!
1. Chauffeur Wanted

_Couldn't resist starting a new story. I was curious about Branson's backstory (we really don't yet know much about what makes him tick since he makes his first appearance in epi 4) and also wanted to explore the characters below stairs. Let's see where it goes. Comments, reviews, speculations are a delight to read and ponder. Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 1 - Chauffeur Wanted<p>

_Late April 1913, Liverpool_

"Tom he's comin' at ya!" a voice said but the warning came too late;  
>SLAM! up against the wall;<br>sharp pain—staggering—foggy—blood trickling down forehead;_  
>breathe, get bearings—breathe, figure out next<em> _move_ _to shut up loud-mouthed bloke;_  
>Recoil hand—deliver hard punch to the gut—upper cut to jaw;<br>THUD! loud-mouth hit the floor.

That's how Branson remembered the fight in the pub the first week he arrived in Liverpool looking for work. That night some random Joe and his mates just wouldn't let up on him and his brother Kevin. No matter how hard Branson tried to diffuse the situation and get back to enjoying his pint of ale, the insults and bigotry kept flying. Then random Joe stupidly took a swing at Kevin and that was that.

The next morning at his brother's house Branson took stock of the outcome of that unfortunate exchange: a jagged cut at his hairline. Not good. Its unflattering presence did not befit the proper grooming of a servant to the upper crust. He respected Kevin's resolve to support his wife and children, but he wasn't keen on joining his brother at the rough and tumble docklands. The atmosphere of aggression that encompassed that vocation, as the wound on his head testified, was a world he wished to extricate himself from. He'd worked too hard to raise himself up from a life of grinding labor to go back to that kind of work. He had different ambitions for what he was going to do with his life; he had ideas.

So Branson wagered that if he were going to stay in England he'd be better off finding work elsewhere, preferably in service. Ideally somewhere not in a city, someplace peaceful, some small town far away from trouble would do just fine.

He sat down at the kitchen table and Katie, Kevin's wife, served him tea and some bread. Reviewing the newspapers he came across this advertisement that seemed to fit his abilities and needs to a tee:

_CHAUFFEUR – WANTED for large family. Must be contentious driver and good mechanic with exceptional references. Apply by letter to Mr. Charles Carson, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire._

He thought he'd give it a try. He wrote a letter of application and crossed his fingers for a response. And a reply did arrive a week later requesting his presence for an interview.

Keen that this was the perfect job for him, Branson bid his brother's family goodbye and decided to try his luck. If he didn't get it, then he told Kevin he'd join him on the docks.

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><p>According to the letter from Mr. Carson, he was to travel via train to a town called Ripon and then take a coach to the village outside of Downton Abbey. Branson's interview was for three in the afternoon and he was advised that it was a short walk from the village to house.<p>

The town was quaint with no more than about hundred residents he'd reckon. Donning his best and only suit, Branson set out about two o'clock on his way to the estate. As he walked along the road he breathed in the fresh country air, crisp and sweet in comparison to the smoky choking air that blanketed Liverpool and Dublin.

While he was keen on securing this position, what Branson craved most of all was some sense of balance in his life. In the bigger picture, he'd grown weary of the poverty that had marked most of his youth. From this life's lesson he came to believe that the poor deserved as decent a life as the rich. His work as a chauffeur gave him a window into the world of the wealthy—his so-called social betters. He'd learned they were flesh and blood too, with foibles and virtues just like most of the folks with whom he'd grown up. One ambition he possessed was to correct that social imbalance, but he had yet to determine the best way to undertake such a daunting mission.

But on a more personal level he was tired of being thrown into the midst of conflict. He wanted to escape the disagreements between those in his family back home in Ireland who had expectations of what he should do, and where and with whom he should be. He also yearned to avoid the constant berating (and occasional battle scars like the one almost healed on his head) he'd encountered because he favored Irish independence from Britain. He was willing to speak his mind on that volatile issue and other viewpoints he supported such as a woman's right to vote, and to defend—with his fists if necessary—his political opinions. In principle he abhorred violence and believed that reasonable informed debate was the best way to forge productive change. But every now and then, he realized more forceful means were required. However at this point he was keen on a respite and this remote part of North Yorkshire just might be the antidote that could quell all the turmoil that had crept into his life.

As he trod up the road, a welcomed breeze rustled the leaves in the trees overhead. By mid-May, the early spring wildflowers had since yielded to an underbrush of ferns that carpeted the forest. A farmer with a horse drawn cart stuffed with bales of hay approached and passed him along his journey, but otherwise he enjoyed the solitude of his walk. In about a half an hour he arrived at what he assumed to be the gate of the estate—a large three arched gothic structure, and his pulse quickened at the prospects of what lie beyond. The dense forest gave way to hay meadows and then a manicured lawn with clumps of trees planted on the rolling verdant landscape.

Branson stopped for a moment and wandered off the road. Taking off his cap and wiping his brow, he surveyed the extraordinary vista. The raw beauty of the land was not unlike the wilds of the countryside he remembered from his childhood. Far in the distance he could see a figure, that of a woman cutting across the grounds and surmised it must be one the estate's denizens. After a bend in the road Downton Abbey came into view—embellished with spires and towers it was a regal three-story fortress that sat on a rise in the land.

He walked through the iron-gate and headed toward the service entrance around the back of the house. Once arrived at his destination he rang the bell.

A petite kitchen maid answered the door, "Yes sir, how can I help ya?" she asked.

"Good day miss, I'm here for a meetin' with a Mr. Carson 'bout the chauffeur's position. The name's Branson, Tom Branson," he nervously replied to the young woman who couldn't be more than 15 or 16 years of age.

"Oh, Mr. Carson's been expectin' ya, please come this way," she said and led him through the lower level of the house and knocked on a door. He could see various servants scurrying about in what appeared to be a large kitchen beyond.

"_Daisy where ya gone off to again?" _came a high-pitched voice from the kitchen.

"Mr. Carson, there's a Mr. Branson to see ya," she said hurriedly.

"_Thank you Daisy, you'd best get back before Mrs. Patmore sends out a search party,"_ came a deep bass voice that bellowed from inside the room.

"Yes Mr. Carson," she said dutifully and rushed back to the kitchen. _"I'm right here Mrs. Patmore…"_

Then the owner of that distinctive voice appeared in the doorway. He was an older man with greying temples dressed in a black suit with a bright white starched shirt. "Mr. Branson is it? Please come in and have a seat," Mr. Carson said as he sized up the candidate.

"Mr. Carson, sir," Branson replied nodding his head in deference to the head butler who sat down at a large desk.

"I've reviewed your application and you seem to be well qualified for the position we've advertised, although we didn't expect to hire someone from as far away as Ireland. Have you references?"

"Yes sir, I do," and Branson handed Mr. Carson two letters from previous employers.

"Thank you," Mr. Carson replied as he took the letters and began to read them taking notes in a black book.

While he waited, Branson glanced around the room to get a sense of the person who ultimately would recommend him for the position to the owner of the great estate. The office was meticulously organized with keys and clipboards hung on the walls. Cabinets lined the room all neatly buttoned up like the gentleman butler who now reviewed his employment history. He intuited that Mr. Carson could be a demanding head of the household, but there was also something about his facial expressions and tone of voice to suggest that fairness was an integral part of his temperament. These qualities put Branson at ease and gave him the confidence that this might very well be the ideal position for him.

"These letters from your former employers give you their highest recommendation. You are characterized as attentive, affable, and reliable. Your driving ability is highly praised and your knowledge about motorcars is described as extensive. This is certainly a good start Mr. Branson," he offered in a measured tone of voice.

"Thank you sir," Branson responded politely.

"Let me tell you more about the position, the household, and respond to any questions you might have," Mr. Carson began. "You would be in the employment of the Earl of Grantham. Your duties would be to drive his Lordship, his family, and their guests from the house to various destinations locally, including once or twice a year down to London. You will also be responsible for the maintenance of the motorcars and we of course would provide you with any tools or parts you might require in your duties. The position pays a generous seventy-five pounds annually, plus food, lodging and of course, your uniform. The chauffeur lives above the garage and typically takes his meals separate from the rest of the staff given your likelihood of being on call during dining hours. Although from time to time it may make sense to join us here for a meal," the butler paused for the applicant to absorb the list of duties he had just spelled out.

"That sounds quite reasonable Mr. Carson. And yes, I do know my way 'round an engine, so she'll be in good hands. I like to keep to myself so being in a cottage suits me just fine," Branson confidently replied pleased at the job's details thus far. The pay also meant he could send a sizable sum back home to help his family.

"Now," he continued. "We here at Downton Abbey demand sterling service and behavior beyond reproach from all in employ whether above or below stairs. His Lordship and Ladyship have the highest expectations from their household staff and it is my responsibility, along with the head housekeeper Mrs. Hughes, to assure that their standards and needs are met. While other households may have slackened in their manner of the execution of their duties, we do not tolerate deception, sloth, or thievery. If these requirements do not suit your inclinations, then this is clearly not the place for you," he said with a conviction that indicated Mr. Carson took his responsibilities with the utmost seriousness. "Do you have any questions about this Mr. Branson?"

Branson appreciated the older man's forthrightness and conscientiousness in carrying out his duties. It indicated an abiding loyalty that must be a consequence of a good relationship between master and servant. Thus he deduced that Lordship must at least be a decent employer. "Mr. Carson, that all sounds satisfactory. Can ya tell me when the position might begin?"

"Well to be honest, Mr. Taylor our current driver retires at the end of this week and we've had difficulty finding his replacement. It would seem that most young men with your abilities yearn to be in bustling London or Manchester, so life up north in the country isn't as appealing," Mr. Carson confessed with a hint of exasperation at his inability to find a suitable applicant. His folded his hands and raised his brows, which meant he had started to weigh his options. "Hmm, when might you be available to start should his Lordship approve of your hiring?" the butler inquired.

Branson responded gleefully to that tidbit of news, "Mr. Carson I can start as soon as ya need me."

"Well then, you seem to be eager and confident—these would certainly be a plus around here. You're the last of our applicants. I'll see if I can get an answer from his Lordship by tomorrow. I believe you're staying in the village?"

"Yes sir, I took a room with a Mrs. Beecham and can be reached there," he replied.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Branson," Mr. Carson rose and shook the young man's hand.

"Mr. Carson," he nodded in appreciation. Pleased at the tenor of his interview, Branson headed down the hall and out of the door.

He strode back around the house and again commenced down the road to the village. He was in high spirits. Just beyond the gate he noticed the person whom he had seen in the distance walking the grounds was now crossing the forecourt of the driveway. Upon closer inspection it was a young woman who walked briskly and carried a small book in her hand. She appeared to no more than seventeen or so with a long ponytail of raven hair emerging from under her straw hat. He watched as Mr. Carson, back at his station upstairs, opened the imposing front door for the young woman who disappeared inside the grand house.

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><p>When he returned to Mrs. Beecham's, she had prepared a meal for her boarder. While he ate his food, the proprietress shared the local gossip that animated her life in the small village. After a passable plate of stew and potatoes, he bid goodnight and retired to his room to read for the rest of the evening—a pastime he enjoyed immensely. Lulled by a cool breeze through the open window coupled with the peacefulness of the country guaranteed that he had a good nights sleep.<p>

The next morning at breakfast Mrs. Beecham passed on a note that had arrived from Downton Abbey. He unfolded it and read:

_Sir, His Lordship has approved your hire as the household's chauffeur. If you accept this place at Downton Abbey, please go around to Mr. Harcourt's shop this morning to be fitted for your new uniform. We will expect you at 1 o'clock this afternoon to begin your duties. Sincerely, Mr. C. Carson._

He smiled and thought that not only could this be a new threshold of opportunity, but also a step toward some sense of stability. Things were indeed looking up.


	2. Progress

_Branson arrives. Curious to hear your thoughts and impressions as this character and story unfold. Thanks for the early comments, suggestions, and reviews. Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 2 – Progress<p>

"Hive" was the word that came to mind his first day at Downton Abbey as Branson anxiously waited for Mr. Carson and observed the various staff members buzz around him as they finished their late morning duties. Pantry doors closed, pots rattled, and footsteps tapped a symphony of the well-honed routines that kept the house running from morning to night. Without disrupting the flow of their activities, he could tell that his new colleagues—chamber and scullery maids, footmen and pages—were sizing up the new chauffeur as they went about their myriad of tasks. But he didn't mind, they would get to know him soon enough. As he perused the scene Branson was curious as well to find out who amongst this vast household would be his allies (or perhaps adversaries), especially when they discovered the position filled by a newcomer to these parts—an Irishman.

Mr. Carson, again donning a neatly pressed black suit, greeted him and informed the young driver that he was pleased that the house steward and Lord Grantham had acted expeditiously on his recommendation. Next on the day's agenda, Mr. Carson introduced him to the head housekeeper, who was studiously working on a ledger in her sitting room when they entered. Mrs. Hughes was her name and she took a break from her accounts to greet the new member of the household staff. With her upright posture and head comfortably aloof, she projected an air of officiousness Branson thought. In spite of her granite façade, he found her soft Scottish brogue comforting—it signaled that outsiders were welcomed to the tight knit community of North Yorkshire locals. From their rapport, he also wagered that like Mr. Carson she too was fair-minded in how she meted out discipline amongst her charges. As they stood side-by-side, he imagined that these two stalwarts performed like bookends—keeping everything and everyone buttressed and in order. Only second to Lord and Lady Grantham, this couple, if he could call them that, steered the reigns of power of all those at work above and below in the great house. He presumed his fate in the household rested upon their good judgment and discretion.

Following the brief introduction to Mrs. Hughes, Branson was placed under the tutelage of Mr. Taylor to get a primer in his new duties. His previous employer in Ireland, Mrs. Ennis was very rich with a fine home, large estate, and a staff of servants, but she was not aristocracy—her deceased husband had accrued his wealth in trade and manufacturing. This new position introduced a new set of protocols that entailed proper forms of address and other practices. But he was a quick study and not afraid to ask questions if he did not fully understand the task or what was required.

Meeting in Mr. Carson's office, Taylor explained the routines of picking up and driving the family. The soon to be retired chauffeur had slow methodical mode of delivery and Branson could have easily grown impatient were it not for the fact that this would be his only interaction with the fellow. Taylor began by saying that Lord Grantham enjoyed walking the grounds to most of his business appointments, and therefore he only utilized the vehicles for trips beyond the estate, on special occasions, or inclement weather. Instead it was the ladies of the house who would be his primary passengers, along with shuttling relatives living in the village back and forth to Downton.

Assist the ladies with entering and exiting the motorcar if a footman was not present Branson was advised. Always be punctual. Key to being in service at Downton was to show respect and deference to "your betters," as Taylor put it. Be steady and even-tempered. Be aware at all times, but look without catching their gaze. Do not speak under any circumstance unless asked a direct question, even then "yes" or "no" will suffice in most instances. From his precise articulation of the smallest procedure, he could tell that Taylor had spent his entire life in service and was proud to have tended this particular household. And while he was familiar with the strict lines of social hierarchy embedded within this code of etiquette, Branson had already experienced the ways in which these lines were transgressed over time as the served quite naturally developed relationships (good and bad) with those who served them.

After his lengthy introduction to the chauffeur's various duties, Taylor walked him down to where the motorcars were kept. The garage was a wooden structure built to specifically house the vehicles and was located at the end of a row of out buildings behind the house. He noticed that just beyond where the dirt road petered out was a walking path that led into the forest surrounding the sprawling estate. Taylor unlatched and opened large doors to reveal the two vehicles owned by the family—both magnificent specimens with finely crafted coaches. The maroon motorcar had a Hotchkiss chassis and the other one was a newer blue Renault towncar, which was used more often.

"These sure are fine motorcars," Branson said in awe as he circled his new assignments noting the supple leather interiors and brass detailing on the elegant coaches. "Very fine indeed."

"Only the best…for his Lordship," Taylor proudly responded.

Branson had learned about automobiles as a young boy by sneaking into a garage in the center of town after he had finished with his schooling. Petrol powered vehicles were still a novelty around his working class neighborhood. As a child when one chugged through the streets amidst the horse drawn carts and carriages, he ran outside to witness its passage. He found these extraordinary feats of human ingenuity an utterly fascinating demonstration of human progress. Absorbing all he could about engines, suspension, and drive shafts, he eventually parlayed that knowledge into pursing employment in service as a chauffeur. As machines overtook animal locomotion as the desired mode of transport, the chauffeur was the new position that replaced coachmen. While he had never worked on either model, he knew all the components and informed Taylor he was confident that he could maintain both vehicles. In fact when Taylor (himself a former coachman) started the Renault, Branson could already tell that it was in need of a few adjustments to its cylinders that would make the engine run more smoothly. Next to reading long tomes on history and political philosophy, there was nothing more challenging or engaging for him than the hours spent fine-tuning a motorcar's inner workings. He often found them far easier to discern and more predictable than people—especially those of the fairer sex.

Once they completed their tour of the motorcars, Mr. Taylor took Branson to his new accommodations that were attached to the garage. Mr. Carson had instructed one of the pages to drop off his bag. Also arrived was a large package from the village tailor that contained his new boots, gloves, hat, goggles, suspenders, and two shirts, which had not require additional tailoring. Mr. Harcourt included a note saying that he would send his new uniform over to the main house tomorrow morning. Since he would be taking over the duties fulltime the following day, Mr. Taylor had already vacated the place, so he was free to unpack his small bag of belongings and settle into his new home. He discovered that the cottage was quite generous in the amount of space it offered—unusual for a servant. It was in fact the largest place he had ever lived in with a bedroom and a commodious front room that included two chairs, a table and a stove with two burners on top if he desired to heat a kettle. A toilet and sink were located in the rear. He found a shelf in the room was suitable for his small collection of books. Large windows ensured that the rooms received ample light and air. Since it was on the edge of forest, he was pleased that it would be very quiet at night. Most of all he liked that he was away from the watchful eyes and ears of the heads of household, which granted him some modicum of freedom even while he worked on the motorcars during the day. Satisfied with his new housing, he had everything he needed—at least for now.

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><p>It was late in the afternoon and Branson was to join Mr. Taylor on a trip in the Renault to bring the Dowager Countess, who he was told was the mother of his Lordship, to the main house for dinner. She lived in a comfortable home behind a stately stonewall in the village. Branson waited patiently in the front seat as Mr. Taylor opened the door for elderly woman.<p>

"Your Ladyship," Mr. Taylor bowed and offered his hand as she stepped into the car. He then cranked the engine and they sped off to the main house.

Halfway into their trip she spoke. "And who have we here Taylor?" inquired the Dowager Countess, who radiated the faint scent of violets and sage.

"Milady, Mr. Branson here…is my replacement. I'm retirin'…as of tomorrow," Taylor replied in his slow halting way of speaking.

"Replacement? Tomorrow? Does my family not tell me anything?" she exclaimed in a voice that reminded Branson of Mrs. Ennis, but the Dowager Countess' possessed a more authoritative edge. "Huh, well Mr. Taylor do enjoy your retirement," she bid the driver. "I myself am not yet ready to be taken out to pasture," she then gruffly commented.

Branson was amused by her feistiness, but thought it wise to remain silent.

"Thank you, milady," Taylor said graciously as the motorcar pulled up to the front door of the house. A tall man with dark hair, who Branson presumed to be the first footman, opened the car's door. He helped the Dowager Countess, who he noticed walked with a finely lacquered cane, to the front door. Mr. Carson instantly appeared to welcome her Ladyship for the evening.

"Mother, you look well this evening," said a man who met her at the door. He was in his late 40s and wore formal evening attire.

"Robert I'm fine, so long as you are not planning to put me out to pasture like Taylor here," she remarked as she ambled into house.

"No Mother, I assure you we have no such plans," the man promised the Dowager Countess before he came over to speak to Taylor who had stepped out of the vehicle. Branson followed his lead.

"Your Lordship," Taylor greeted his soon to be former employer.

"I just wanted to wish you well on your retirement. I trust you have plans to use your time wisely?" he said to the departing chauffeur in perfectly phrased and enunciated English.

"Yes milord…I'm plannin' on openin' a tea shop…over'n Masham."

"Well then that should keep you busy," said the Earl. "And Mr. Carson is this Taylor's replacement we hired yesterday?"

"Yes milord it is. This is Mr. Branson," Carson told the Earl.

"Ah yes, welcome," he said as looked over his new hire.

"Thank you your Lordship," Branson dutifully nodded acknowledging the Earl's greeting.

"All the best Mr. Taylor," the elegantly dressed man concluded as he turned around and walked back inside. He had finally met the Earl of Grantham whose estate he was now a part of.

Branson's fingers were crossed that his time he had found a decent employer. He recalled his first position in service, that of a chauffeur for a squire who held large tract of land outside of Dublin. He was a miserly old man, a callous master who lorded over all the small staff in his employ that he worked hard for little to no wages. It was to say the least a miserable experience, one he vowed never to repeat. His next position in the household of Mrs. Ennis was a far more pleasant situation. However, despite her great wealth Mrs. Ennis' parsimonious management of the household meant that improvements and wage increases were slow in coming. Comparing such grand homes and fine trappings to the places where he had grown up, he realized there were cavernous gaps between the country's rich and poor citizens. These economic and social differences had been growing wider despite the rhetoric that industrial capitalism would bring a better life for all. But he also knew the forces of change were brewing.

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><p>He and Mr. Taylor walked around to the service entrance. They joined the rest of the staff in the servant's hall for a farewell dinner for the departing chauffeur. This also gave Branson a chance to meet the other servants, to put names with the faces he had observed earlier that day.<p>

The servant's hall was a large room with a long table and several chairs. The bells on the wall were labeled with each room, so that the family's needs could be promptly catered to. Several places had been laid out and people began to sit down. Mrs. Hughes took notice of the new hire and gestured to a chair for Branson to sit in.

"Well now everyone we don't usually dine this early, but since its Mr. Taylor's last day after twenty two years of service here at Downton we didn't want to send him off hungry," she joked. Branson presumed Mr. Carson was upstairs tending to the family before they dined. And he noticed the footmen carrying platters to take up for the family's meal.

One of the kitchen maids began to serve the dinner, it was the young girl he'd met the day before. She leaned over and whispered as she served him soup, "glad ya got the position, me name's Daisy." Then she quickly moved on to the next person.

Mrs. Hughes stood once more and began, " And one more thing, I'd like to introduce and welcome Downton's new chauffeur: Mr. Branson."

He cracked a smile, as everyone looked his way. And then Mrs. Hughes picked up her spoon and everyone commenced eating. To his left sat a middle-aged gentleman in a tweed suit. "Welcome to Downton Mr. Branson, my name is John Bates," he leaned over and to say.

"Please ta meet ya," Branson replied. "And what do you do sir?"

"I'm his Lordship's valet," Mr. Bates replied, and Branson noted a hint of an Irishman's lilt in his voice.

"A good position that is."

"Indeed, it and his Lordship are very good," Mr. Bates acknowledged, in what Branson discerned was an otherwise stoic demeanor.

As he gazed around the table he noted the crisp clean uniforms amongst the various housemaids dining with them. And at the end sat a woman dressed in black that he presumed given her uniform to be the lady's maid. Although in light of her prized position he noted a rather dour expression upon her face.

"_Mrs. Hughes we've got a problem brewin' in here,"_ yelled a voice from the kitchen. While he hadn't met the head cook yet, a Mrs. Patmore, the voice he had previously heard the day of his interview must of have been hers.

"Will dinner service 'round here ever go smoothly?" Mrs. Hughes lamented and stood up to leave. "Mr. Taylor, do take care of yourself and all the best. Please pardon me, I'm coming Mrs. Patmore," she said with keys on her waist jingling as she hurried off to tend to the flare-up.

The meal was brief, but tasty. Various fellow diners including Mr. Bates shook Taylor's hand. Amidst the farewells a young petite woman approached him. "Mr. Branson is it?"

"Yes it is," he affirmed.

"My name is Anna Smith, I'm the head housemaid. Glad to have you. Hope you're settlin' in. Things are always hectic 'round here, so takes some time gettin' used to 'n all. Let me know if ya need anything," she generously offered.

"Why thank you. I'm gettin' the lay of the place and used to things," he replied. Overall, he was pleased that most folks seemed friendly. Although as with any household there must be competitions and rivalries around here as people jockeyed to move up in the hierarchy of the staff. Again another reason to be peripheral to the daily happenings of the household by living out by the garage.

He remained in the servant's hall with Mr. Taylor till the car was needed to take the Dowager Countess home later that evening. On their return trip, they delivered her Ladyship safely home. Then Branson cranked-up the engine and got behind the wheel. He drove Mr. Taylor over to Mrs. Beecham's where he was staying for the evening before departing the village for Masham the day.

"Thank you Mr. Branson…good luck…you've a fine place over at Downton," Taylor told him as he exited the vehicle.

"And thank you for teachin' me the ropes of my new position today. Good luck to you sir," he replied. The job was now his.

Branson drove the car the back to the Downton. To get a sense of how it handled on the open road, once he left the village limits he opened up. He could hear the crankshafts and flywheels whirl as he revved the engine—it was a glorious sound emanating from one the best motorcars built.

Even better was the exhilarating feeling of freedom as he sped along the narrow road. Anticipation quickened the heart as he reached forty miles an hour. It was akin to how he felt about his life then and there—speeding forward along an unknown path that held great promise, but also unforeseen dangers.


	3. A Proper Fit

_New developments with an old story. Thanks for the great comments and reviews—they do spark the imagination. Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 3 – A Proper Fit<p>

The early morning summer sun stirred Branson awake as its rays streamed through the windows of his small cottage. Finally he had slept well with the knowledge that he was securely employed. His mind was quickly at work tallying his first day's duties. Top on his list of things to do in his new position was to make some adjustments to the Renault before he went to the main house to find out his roster of trips for the day.

He rose from the bed and put on work clothes suitable for poking around an engine. In the cabinet he found a tin of tea on the shelf. He drew some water and put on a kettle. Just as the water began to boil he heard a knock at the door. It was Daisy.

Trying to catch her breath she said, "Mornin' Mr. Branson, Mrs. Patmore sent bread fer ya. Here tis," and she handed him a basket. "Bye now," Daisy bid and turned around to hurry back to her morning tasks, but then she stopped. "Oh I knew I'd forget somethin'. Mr. Carson says to tell ya yer uniform should be here first thing. Charlie 'll bring it over. That's all. Goodbye." Then she went a few more steps and turned around again, "Oh Daisy yer mind's poked full o' holes. Mr. Carson also says his Lordship's wantin' to see ya this mornin' after ya get ya new clothes. Now let me think…" she waited a second, "that's all for real this time. Bye." And the young kitchen maid departed.

"Thanks Daisy," Branson yelled as he watched her sprint back to the kitchen. Taking the basket inside he prepared his tea. He sat down to eat the bread, which still warm, and spread onto it preserves he'd also found in the basket.

As he settled into new routines, he missed reading his morning newspapers. He liked to keep up on the events and political debates that were impacting his fellow citizens across the empire and beyond. Access to what was happening elsewhere cast the everyday struggles that folks around him undertook into a wider spectrum of societal pressures and changes. In particular, he didn't want the fact that he had moved up here (a least for now) to lead to complacency about taking action on his beliefs. He would see how he could obtain the newspapers, especially the trade unionist _Daily Herald—_one he seriously doubted would be on Lord Grantham's list of morning reading.

Once his tea and bread were finished he set off to work. He propped open the garage doors. Looking around the place, he found an apron hanging behind the door and made a quick survey of tools and other equipment. Most of what he needed was already there, but he made a list of things he thought should be purchased. He opened the hood of the Renault and began getting to know his new mechanical charge.

While leaning over the car he heard footsteps approach, followed by a deep voice, "so yer tha one took over'n from Taylor eh?" Branson looked up to see a husky fellow, early-40s, with a greying beard. He was carrying an axe on his shoulder and big sack filled with branches. Since his clothes were dusty and boots covered in mud, Branson figured out he must be one of the groundskeepers. He stopped what he was doing and wiped his hands.

"Yes, today's me first day, first full day really. Branson's my name, Tom Branson that is. How d'ya do?" he introduced himself to the unknown visitor.

"Errrh, not from 'round here are ya?" asked the stout groundskeeper as he looked Branson over.

"No I'm new to these parts. Came from Dublin and thereabouts," Branson replied realizing the man had detected his Irish brogue. Not sure where the conversation was going, he decided to remain cordial nonetheless.

"Well now an Irishman's tha new driver. Wid boys round here 'n the village scramblin' fer things ta do, would've thought they'd hired one of us locals. But then again don't run the place, just work here," he commented in a circumspect fashion. "Nope just work here," the mystery man said as he walked off to one the nearby outbuildings. Branson didn't know what to make of this peculiar encounter, but decided not to dwell on it and get back to work. He'd find out the man's story from someone else.

As he finished up, he put back the tools and heard someone yell into the garage "Mr. Branson? Mr. Branson are ya in here…?"

"I'm right here," he said as he came to the door and noticed an older boy—skinny as a twig—with a large box under his arm.

"There ya are. This come fer ya, it's from the tailors."

"Yes, it must be my new uniform. Thank you…um I didn't catch your name?" Branson said relieving the boy of his package and deciding this time to find out who this latest visitor was.

"I'm Charlie, I'm a kinda "do-it-aller" 'round here. But what I'd really like ta do's work one o' these," the boy replied peering into the engine.

"Fancy yourself a chauffeur do ya?" Branson asked.

"Well me ma says I'm going to be tall, so I'd make a good footman. But these motorcars sure are something to behold," he said walking around the car running his hand over the lamps and fenders. "What ya doin' right now" Charlie inquired.

"Just a little work to make the cylinders slide more easily. Ya see if…" and he explained to the boy what he had adjusted. "Minor alteration, but makes a major difference in how she runs. Come back and I'll show ya more."

"I'd like that. Mr. Carson and Thomas keep me busy so's I can hardly catch me breath, like next after you get this box I'm supposed to be gettin' the silver out for William to polish after they finish with serving breakfast. But I'll try to come again."

"I'm here, so come back anytime," Branson told the lad. "Hey can ya tell me somethin'? Who's the big fella, beard, doesn't smile a lot?"

"Hmmm," Charlie thought a moment. "Oh, you must mean Big Jim. He mostly keeps paths clear, cuttin' trees, and does some huntin' for unwanted animals, poachers, 'n all."

"Not the friendly type or at least not to me huh?" Branson asked.

"Wouldn't want to make 'im mad I reckon. Thanks again for explainin' that bit ta me," Charlie said as he headed back to the main house.

"Happy to. Come again," Branson told the boy. He fondly remembered that this was precisely how he got started; someone in the garage showed him a few things and then he was hooked.

Branson shut the engine's hood and closed up the garage. It was half past eight and he'd already had three visitors. He carried the large box into the cottage. Uniforms to him were precisely what the word meant: identical, alike, standardized, a means to erase all markers of difference. In his mind wearing a uniform allowed the individual to recede into the background so that those who lorded over their workers never had to recognize that below the surface they were all in fact equal—all flesh and blood. But wearing one came with being in service, so he had grown accustomed to it. And more than anything he took his duties seriously and cared most about doing the best job.

He placed the heavy box down on the table, cut the string, and opened the lid. Inside—all neatly folded—was a dark green wool uniform comprised of a jacket, vest and jodhpurs. He removed each piece from the box and hung them up. Looking over the lining and details he observed that Mr. Harcourt did fine work, he cared about his craft. He took off his work clothes and bathed in the basin. He began to put on his new uniform. The white shirt was soft cotton, which felt light on his skin on a hot day. The pants were the right length. He knotted his tie once his vest was on. It being brand new the jacket and its collar were a little stiff and would have to take some getting used to, especially in the summer heat. The boots would have to be broken in as well, but time would take care of that. All in all the new uniform was a perfect fit.

* * *

><p>Walking over to the main house, Branson returned the basket to the kitchen. He introduced himself to Mrs. Patmore and thanked her for the bread. She had just finished with breakfast and was beginning to organize luncheon and dinner. "Where's the butter…Daisy," she yelled. She was a short woman with wiry grey hair. He could tell from her tone of voice she commanded the kitchen with the precision of a battalion colonel.<p>

"Mr. Branson I like to keep the young men around here well fed," Mrs. Patmore said to the new driver. "Ah let's see," she came out from behind the large table and looked him over. "You look like you've a healthy appetite, so don't worry I'll look after ya," she winked and assured him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore you're too kind" he said. He was pleased that head cook would take care of him—not a bad alliance to have in a large household.

Next he met Mr. Carson in his office at ten o'clock. "Ah I see you received Mr. Harcourt's package. He's worked his magic and was able to make your uniform in no time."

"Yes Mr. Carson. He's done an excellent job with getting everything just so," he responded.

Mr. Carson informed Downton Abbey's new driver of the day's trips, which included taking Lady Grantham and two of her daughters: Ladies Edith and Sybil to the village to shop for fabric. Later on he would bring the Dowager Countess to the house for dinner. Branson also handed Mr. Carson his list of needed tools and supplies to which the butler replied with an eyebrow arched, "Hmm, I see you've been quite busy already today."

"Thought I'd take care of a few things before we met," he replied.

"Excellent. His Lordship should be finished with breakfast and wishes to see you in the library."

Branson was surprised that Lord Grantham desired to meet with him given how busy he must be with managing the estate. He suspected he wanted to request something about the motorcars, but then why not just tell Mr. Carson? No matter he would find out soon enough and he was eager to take a peek at the main level of the house.

Mr. Carson led him through a passage and up a set of stairs. They emerged into a large sitting area just off the richly paneled main stair hall. The wooden floors gave way as they walked through the grand salon with its high ceiling and walls dripping with elaborately carved gothic details. Downton Abbey was an impressive structure, far more ornate and sprawling than the homes of his previous employers. The two men stopped at a doorway and Mr. Carson walked into the room announce him. He then gestured for Branson to enter the library.

Branson's eyes filled with envy as he scanned the rows of books that lined the large room. More books than he could imagine one person could read in a lifetime. He stopped, placed his hat under his arm, his right hand behind his back, and stood erect while he waited to be addressed. With his back to the door, Lord Grantham finished his writing. He turned around and welcomed his new chauffeur. His Lordship inquired if he had been given everything he needed and was promised. Branson replied "yes," but said little else as Mr. Taylor had advised.

Then he expected the next question to pertain to the motorcars, but much to his surprise Lord Grantham stood up, approached him and inquired about Ireland, specifically if he missed his homeland. Branson responded honestly that he didn't miss working for Mrs. Ennis, who insisted on driving very slowly much to his chagrin. And because of that he revealed he found the job quite boring—a confession Lord Grantham found very amusing.

In awe of the wealth of knowledge collected in this one room, Branson took it upon himself to compliment the Earl on his immense store of books, "You've got a wonderful library milord."

Pleased that his new hire recognized the value of the estate's collection, Lord Grantham offered to let him borrow books if he so desired. To this extraordinarily generous gesture, Branson did not know what to say. His Lordship explained that others, including Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, also borrowed books—mainly novels—from the collection. He merely requested they to sign a ledger to keep track of what's been removed. Curious, Lord Grantham inquired what he was keen on reading. Branson told him books on the topics of history and politics mostly.

"Heavens" replied the Earl impressed with the young man's intellectual inquisitiveness. Like clockwork, the head butler reappeared. "Carson, Branson is going to borrow some books, he has my permission." And lastly Lord Grantham wished him good luck in his new duties.

Branson bowed and left the library. As he made his way back downstairs he was astonished by the Earl's graciousness. His new employer was certainly not one for maintaining conventions it would seem, which made sense given what Mrs. Beecham had gossiped that Lord Grantham had married an American woman rather than a British aristocrat. But despite his congeniality, he was still a member of an elite class whose inherited wealth eclipsed that of almost everyone within the county and that imbalance Branson fervently believed was a social injustice that desperately needed recalibration.

* * *

><p>In the afternoon, he brought the motorcar around front, got out and stood next to the vehicle. He was still getting used to his new uniform as he fiddled with the buttons and adjusted the goggles on his hat. Eventually a regal middle-aged woman dressed in a flowing ivory linen jacket approached the vehicle; two young women followed her. Mr. Carson made introductions: "Lady Grantham, this is Branson, Taylor's replacement."<p>

She smiled warmly and asked "Branson, I hope you are finding everything that you need." She spoke with an accent that was quite unlike anything he'd ever heard—he thought it must be what an American twang sounds like.

"Yes I have your Ladyship, thank you," he nodded as he opened the door and each of the ladies entered the car. As he stared studiously ahead he caught a glimpse of the siblings. He noticed that one daughter had fair hair and wore a red dress and the other daughter with dark hair was dressed in a light blue jacket and skirt.

He drove the women of Downton over to the village. As he sped down the road he could hear snippets of conversation about forthcoming parties and what dresses they desired to wear. Then the youngest daughter asked why was it after they finished with dinner the women are always relegated to the drawing room to chatter away about lace and frocks, while the men talked politics and power amongst themselves. She proclaimed that women deserved more rights, why couldn't they be equal to men? But before her mother and sister could respond to her radical declaration, he pulled the motorcar in front of the draper's shop. After discharging his passengers, Lady Grantham instructed him to pick them up in an hour in the central square.

He parked the motorcar and walked over to the post office to find out about getting his newspaper. The postmaster told him that he'd be happy to order the _Daily Herald._ If the trains were on time it would arrive in the morning and he'd send it over with Lord Grantham's newspapers. Pleased with this solution Branson went to the central square. While he waited for the ladies to return, he watched the workmen erect the concessions for the local fair visiting the village for the next few days. The village lanes were far less frenetic than the streets of Liverpool or Dublin. Like everything since coming to Downton, he was acclimating to the slower pace of life in the country.

About an hour later the women returned from their errand. Lady Grantham informed him that he would be taking Lady Sybil to Ripon the next day. As they sat down he overheard youngest daughter say that she was intent on getting her dress done in the latest fashion, but doubted the dressmaker was up to the task. She wanted something that had a proper fit, she desired something utterly new and exciting.

He cranked the engine then slipped behind the wheel. He heard Lady Sybil proudly agree with her mother that a woman's rights begin at home. As he released the brake he suddenly made the connection—Lady Sybil was the person he saw walking the grounds the day he came for his interview. What a spirited young woman he thought. He cracked a smiled and drove off now feeling wholly comfortable in his new life.

* * *

><p><em>Aside: It was odd rewriting parts of the story—kind of like putting on someone else's pants! Do other writers on this board feel this way when rewriting the original miniserie's plotlines?<em>


	4. Enlightened

_This story is finding its way along some familiar territory. Thanks in advance for your comments and reviews. Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 4 – Enlightened<p>

_Let's see what to pick?_ Branson asked himself while he finished the last bites of his black pudding and eggs. Mrs. Patmore had kept to her promise and sent over a hearty breakfast for the young man. He began to sift through his collection of pamphlets and books laid out on the table. _A Word on Women's Suffrage_ might be a good overview he thought. He suspected given her age she wouldn't know much about the history of the women's movement in Britain. Some of the more radical tracts like Sylvia Pankhurst's _The Suffragette_ might be a bit too provocative given her aristocratic position and conservative upbringing, thus he considered other options. Perhaps the most recent issues of _Common Cause_ might provide the latest news on the movement along with an introduction to the philosophies of its major figures. _Yes,_ he concluded, these should provide excellent reading for Lady Sybil.

Branson earnestly believed that women were equal to men, a position not very popular amongst his own sex—regardless of being rich or poor, Irish or English. He came to this understanding through his own edification as well as from personal experience. He was confident that women would get the vote and eventually achieve parity in all things, but it would be a long and difficult fight to enact the necessary seismic shifts in all facets of society. He'd grown to understand that at the bottom of it all people just didn't like change. Thus, the more recruits enlisted in the battle the better. And since Lady Sybil had expressed that she was all for women's rights, he saw no harm in broadening her horizon.

Once finished with his breakfast he headed out to the garage to work on the Hotchkiss. Although the family used this vehicle less often, it still needed a few adjustments to its engine. As with the previous day while he went about his maintenance regime, he could see Big Jim returning from his early morning chores out of the corner of his eye. The groundskeeper trudged by the open garage doors carrying a shovel and pick ax on his shoulder. Branson greeted the hulking man with a hearty "good morning Sir.'" But he received no more than a grumble and leer in response. He had no clue what was at the root of Big Jim's disaffection, but he wasn't going to bother to find out. When done with his work, he went back inside the cottage to put on his uniform. He then drove up to the main house for his list of trips for the day.

* * *

><p>While he waited for Mr. Carson to complete the breakfast service, Branson sat down with Mr. Bates at the large table in the servant's hall. To bide his time, he read the previous day's newspapers. Mrs. Patmore sent Daisy in with a pot of tea for the two men.<p>

"Ay, says here that in a London jail two more women 've gone on a hunger strike," Branson observed with a heavy sigh.

"Doesn't sound good," Bates replied as he sorted through buttons trying to find a match for a tweed jacket he had on his lap.

Anna came in and joined the two men at the table. She had just finished getting the Crawley daughters dressed and sat down to fold a pile of clean handkerchiefs.

"Huh, guess this means the government won't be force feedin' them anymore, but lettin' em out to go get healthy then arrestin' them again. I don't like this Cat and Mouse Act they've put into place against the protesters," Branson told them.

"Me neither—its going to make for a heap of trouble for those poor women," Bates said as he looked across the table and cracked a subtle smile at Anna.

"Reading 'bout the latest row with the suffragette hunger strikers Mr. Branson? Some trouble that is," Anna chimed in and smiled back at Bates as she efficiently halved, then quartered each cotton square.

Branson could sense the covert flirtation between Anna and Bates, so he decided to cause a little mischief and put the latter on the spot. "So Mr. Bates what d'ya think about women's rights?"

"Can't wait to hear that one," Anna said slyly as she rearranged her now folded stack of handkerchiefs.

"Well…" Bates paused.

"You're undecided then?" Branson prodded.

"No. The way I see it there's much to do in this world. So the more hands we've got in the mix the better things will be and the faster things will get done. So why not treat women the same as us men?"

Branson watched closely as Anna blushed and responded with a barely audible "here, here Mr. Bates." Then she grabbed her neatly folded stack and disappeared up the stairs.

"Well I couldn't agree more with ya," Branson grinned at his success in stirring up a bit a fun between them.

"You know," Bates said in a low voice, "because men have more privileges than women has caused a major uproar with the family because Lady Mary can't inherit Downton Abbey."

"What d'ya mean?" Branson asked curious to know more about the family he now served.

"Well the two heirs in line to Lord Grantham's estate died when the Titanic went down last year—some tragedy that was. And there's this thing called an entail that says that no women can inherit this place, so the next in line is a distant cousin a Mr. Crawley who is, or rather was a solicitor in Manchester."

"You don't say. Bet that riled things up 'round here," Branson replied.

"Oh you wouldn't begin to believe the trouble it's stirred up. Question is will Lady Mary marry Mr. Crawley, which seems it'd solve everyone's problem."

"I don't understand, if she's in love with him—great for them. But if she's not, then she's marryin' him for the money and that's goin' to make for a mess o' trouble down the road," Branson offered his strong opinion on the matter.

"Exactly," Bates confirmed as he also found the button he was looking for.

"I think a man and a woman should marry only for love," Branson then added.

"Well now, an Irishman with a heart soft as cheese," Bates said of his co-worker. And the two men laughed as they finished their tea.

Mr. Carson barreled into the servant's hall with William in his wake. "William remember never to place the coffee pot too far from the cups, makes for spills and more work for the housemaid's wash. Branson, Lady Sybil should be ready to go to Ripon at half past the hour. If you give me a moment I can tell you the other trips scheduled so far for today."

"Yes, thank you Mr. Carson," he replied as he went to put on his jacket and followed Mr. Carson into his office.

* * *

><p>Branson drove the Renault around to the front of the house and waited for Lady Sybil to appear. At 10:30 she came out of the front door with Lady Grantham. He overheard her mother tell the young woman, "Remember to tell Madame Swan to fit the dress loosely, we want to make sure you can wear it at your first season in London next year."<p>

"Yes, Mama. I think by now I can aptly instruct Madame Swan in what you want," Lady Sybil replied with a hint of vexation in her voice at her mother's directives. "No need to worry, I'll be fine," she assured her mother as she raced toward the car to get out from under her mother's wings.

"Milady," Branson offered as he held the door and Lady Sybil darted inside.

"Wew," she breathed a sigh of relief, "thank you Branson."

He cranked the engine and put the car in gear. Off they went to Ripon. The drive took just under an hour and the two travelled in complete silence. He noticed in his rear view mirror his passenger watching the late spring scenery as they sped along. Just as they entered the town he decided to hand Lady Sybil the reading material he had gathered. He started a conversation by asking if she would get the dress she wanted. Wishing to maintain the proper etiquette, he also apologized for overhearing her conversation the day before. When she didn't seem to object, he followed with the comment that it sounded like she supported women's rights.

Surprised by the new chauffeur's inquiry Lady Sybil mustered up the confidence to express her newly discovered position, "I suppose I do."

"Because I'm quite political," he began. Then he handed back to her the three pamphlets selected from his collection. "Its about the vote," he informed her.

Lady Sybil quickly looked over the titles and was thrilled to learn more about this important movement. She thanked him, but she asked him not to tell Lord Grantham or the Dowager Countess as they would feel uneasy at her exposure to such radical ideas. Prompted by his gesture she next asked, "It seems rather unlikely, a revolutionary chauffeur?"

"Maybe," he thought for a moment, then clarified "I'm a socialist not a revolutionary. And I won't always be a chauffeur." The latter was in fact true. He did not plan to stay in service for the rest of his life. He figured this new position paid enough to live off of, save a little, and to send something home to Ireland to help his family. It also bought him some time to determine his next move—whatever and wherever that might be. He realized that he had never openly revealed to anyone before this ambition, let alone one of his masters or mistresses, but there was something about this young woman that he implicitly trusted.

Their return trip mirrored the earlier one neither said anything. As he pulled in front of Downton Abbey he opened the door. "Milady," he nodded. As Lady Sybil stepped out of the motorcar she told him "Thank you Branson, for everything." Then walked to the house where Mr. Carson greeted her.

* * *

><p>So far Branson's first week and a half in service at Downton Abbey had been gratifying as he settled into the routines and learned the protocols of his new job. The nasty gash on his head had pretty much healed. And his plan to stay away from trouble and the rowdiness that came with city life was succeeding—at least for now. He savored the calmness of the country and looked forward to some time off.<p>

He did not drive Lady Sybil again for at least a week. On Sunday morning he took the entire family to church in the village. Once he brought them back home, he would have the afternoon all to himself. Intent on catching up on some reading, he inquired with Mr. Carson if he could borrow a book from the library while Lord Grantham was busy elsewhere in the house. The head butler approved his request.

Once he entered Downton's library he did not know where to start there were so many books surrounding him on all sides. He began to do a general sweep of the shelves till he got a sense of the arrangement and ordering system. He noticed there were many titles that had been referenced in the books he had read over the years. Much to his surprise he discovered texts by thinkers who held staunchly socialist viewpoints. It would seem that the Earl and his predecessors wanted keep abreast of all the significant ideas that were being written about and debated—clearly very erudite men, even if they were powerful landowners. With so much to choose from he selected the second volume of the _Stones of Venice_. It was a curious choice because he wasn't necessarily keen on reading about the aesthetics of Gothic architecture, which was the very reason he suspected it was in Downton's library, but its chapters also included important criticisms about the impact of industrialization on society. That he figured would make it a challenging read.

He signed out the volume in the Earl's ledger and headed back downstairs. Once back in his cottage, he changed out of his uniform into something suitable for a walk. Excited to crack open this new book, he decided to hike into the woods and find a quiet place to read for a few hours.

He took the path that he had seen Big Jim emerge from. He walked through the tall trees whose high canopy shaded the forest's floor on the late spring afternoon. The path then led down an incline and continued along a brook that cut through the estate. There were felled trees and grassy patches along its banks. Thinking this was the perfect place he sat down and leaned back on the trunk of a fallen tree.

Shortly after he had read the first few pages, he was entranced by the meticulous descriptions of the far away ethereal Italian city. He briefly closed his eyes to enjoy scent of the forest, and the sounds of the rustling tree leaves and rushing water. Suddenly he heard "Oh heavens!" and was startled out of his reverie—it was Lady Sybil.

"Branson, I'm so sorry I didn't mean to scare you, thought you were a dead body. I typically don't see anyone here except the occasional groundskeeper," she said wearing a simple skirt, blouse, and walking shoes with her hair neatly tucked under a straw hat.

"Lady Sybil!" Branson responded and he quickly jumped to his feet. He noticed that she was carrying one of the pamphlets he had given her.

"Please no need to get up," she urged. Sensing the awkwardness of the surprise encounter she looked around and then said, "So I see you've discovered one of my favorite places on the estate. Its very peaceful and I thought I'd come here to finish the pamphlets you've generously lent to me."

"Yes milady it is peaceful," he replied. "I only stumbled across this place today."

Rather than continue with her walk she sat down on the tree trunk and gestured for him to sit next to her. He found it was a bit odd, but did not want to offend his mistress' request.

"What are you reading?" she inquired as she looked down at the book he held in his hand.

"A volume of Ruskin. Its from his Lordship's library," he succinctly answered her question.

"Papa's let you take out books? He's very liberal in that way. I'm sure he's delighted that you took an interest," Lady Sybil said as she nervously picked at the tree bark.

"Yes, milady. It was very generous of his Lordship," Branson replied attempting to maintain a level of formality in their conversation.

"And you're reading Ruskin no less, I believe that was my grandfather's book. He and his father were the one's who hired the architect of Parliament to convert the old castle into a gothic palace," she informed him. "May I ask why you picked that one out of all the books?" Lady Sybil asked as she folded her hands in her lap.

"Well," he took a moment to formulate his answer. "You see Ruskin was a socialist or at least held socialist ideas. He saw what factories were doin' to the people and thought it raised a big moral dilemma. I'd read the first volume, so I figured I'd try the next." He got the sense Lady Sybil was surprised by his literateness.

"So I guess for you women's rights are one part of a bigger picture," she then asked him.

"Yes you might say that." He was curious about the success of his effort to educate the Earl's daughter on the women's movement, "Milady, what d'ya think of the pamphlets I gave to you?"

"Thank you very much they were very instructive. I have one more to read. It was helpful to learn how the different political parties are allying for or against enfranchisement. Looks like Liberal politicians are key and must be persuaded. Though it seems if women get the vote, whether rich or poor, it shifts the balance of power. Those are very big stakes are they not?" Lady Sybil perceptively told him.

"Yes they are, milady. That's why it's been a brutal political dogfight," he confirmed. "D'ya think you'll get involved in some way?"

Lady Sybil looked out over the brook and eagerly said "I do want to help in the fight for women to gain their independence. But it will have to be around here for now. Since you must have realized by now that up here things can feel somewhat remote—its not Manchester and London where the real action is at. But I do believe it's an important cause and want to get involved." Looking down at her feet, she then confessed, "I know Mama and Grandmother will frown upon anything I try to do. And I can't imagine what Papa would say."

"Milady I'm sure they will come 'round to your cause," he tried to boost her confidence.

"It helps that Cousin Isobel, Mrs. Crawley, is a staunch supporter. And now I have you to talk to. I can't tell you how much I've learned from reading these. I hope we can talk more about this and you won't hesitate to share more with me. I'd so like that," she asked looking directly at him.

Branson did not avert his gaze, but smiled warmly at the young woman as he replied, "I'd be happy to give you more to read and talk further if you're interested." He was duly impressed. Lady Sybil had proved a quick study.

She also seemed satisfied at what she had learned. "Oh and since you had asked about my new frock. I asked Madame Swan to make something that felt empowering. I think you'd be pleased with my choice. It arrived yesterday and I am wearing it at a family dinner tonight."

"Yes, I'm to pick up the Dowager Countess and the Crawleys later in the day."

"We should be in the drawing room around 7 o'clock, so if you happen to come by you may see the results of your tutelage," she suggested and then stood up to leave. "Branson forgive me again. I didn't mean to take up your valuable time. I know it's your afternoon off and you want to enjoy your book."

"Milady, tis no problem," Branson replied as he stood up to bow as she went on her way. This last gesture somehow reinstated the rules of decorum that structured the relationship between them as servant and mistress. Although he had the peculiar feeling that something more was emerging between them, certainly a friendship of a sort, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

* * *

><p>It was late afternoon when Branson finished reading and made his way back to the cottage. He put back on his uniform and then went to pick up the Crawleys and the Dowager Countess for dinner.<p>

After he dropped them off he looked at his pocket watch, it was just before 7 o'clock. He wondered if he could catch a glimpse of Lady Sybil and decided to wait a few minutes. He walked stealthy toward the window into the sitting room and peered inside. Just then Lady Sybil appeared in a haze of turquoise and pale blue fabric. Rather than a dress, certainly the demure one her mother had envisioned, she had had Madame Swann make her a pair of harem pants. Hands on her hips, head held high she proudly proclaimed her right to choose what she wanted. He was beginning to learn that the youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham was indeed a lightening quick study.


	5. One Day in the Park

_It's mid-summer in London. Appreciate any and all comments—they do inspire. Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 5 – One Day in the Park<p>

In the heat of mid-summer afternoon, Branson walked through Hyde Park. It was steaming hot and the sun beat down on the passersby. Shaded by their colorful parasols, elegantly ladies strolled arm-in-arm with gentlemen. Children skipped along after their parents. It was a Sunday and the lush park was filled with visitors from all parts of London.

What a frenzied week, Branson reflected as he went along. Earlier in the week he had driven Lady Grantham and the Crawley daughters to London. Once arrived and unloaded, he was swiftly dispatched to King's Cross station to retrieve additional luggage and provisions that had been shipped via train. He discovered that when Lord and Lady Grantham migrated to London for the summer season moving not only a family but also a sizeable contingent of the household staff was no small feat. He was in admiration of Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson's facility at coordinating all the minutiae.

London was cramped, sooty, and noisy and he missed the serenity of his cottage. He had a room on the men's side of the attic that he shared with Mr. Bates. His city routine was proving to be of a very different sort. He was now incorporated into the daily schedule of the household staff, which included all meals on their tight schedule. From Downtown Abbey, Mr. Carson, Miss O'Brien, Thomas, William and Mrs. Patmore joined the small staff of caretakers at Grantham House.

During the day the family walked to most of their appointments and engagements. Every evening they traveled to a dinner party or ball. This he began to understand was the entire point of "the season"—so that the sons and daughters of the aristocracy could find suitable mates. A lot of strutting like peacocks in fine jewels and clothing, he observed, just to ensure that the wealth of the nation stayed safely in the coffers of a select few families. He also noticed that Lady Sybil stayed at home most evenings. "It's because she has not yet been presented at court," Mr. Bates had informed him one morning over tea. "That'll happen next year," Miss O'Brien proudly inserted into their conversation.

Branson had the afternoon off and decided to head to the park to attend a political rally. After a few minutes he came upon the large banner: "Votes for Women." He had found the meeting of the Women's Freedom League. The event had already attracted about two hundred or more people. Police on foot and horseback patrolled the area in case the crowd became unruly. He decided to stake out a position toward the edge of the gathering. As he took a quick survey he could see that plumed straw hats dominated the crowd with a few men's bowler and caps interspersed throughout.

There were several speakers on the roster both women and men. The first woman to speak to the crowd was a Dubliner and he was keen on hearing her speak. She spoke about the tactics of passive resistance she had learned from a great man in India. The crowd cheered her on. Also invited up to the platform to speak was another veteran of the women's movement who took a more militant view. She had experienced several run-ins with police, including arrests and jail time, and had participated in a highly publicized hunger strike. She emphatically told the assembled group that women must be enfranchised and that the current Liberal government could no longer let families starve, while those at the head of industry grew fatter and richer. "There are more of us women," she yelled, "There are a million more women in England than men! That is what they fear!" Her entreaty whipped up the crowd who chanted the WFL's motto "Votes for women!" Dissenters were there too—mostly men who heckled the women with the countercharge of "No for Women! No for Women!"

Branson could see a line of dark suits slowly encircling the crowd and he realized the police were beginning to take notice. Not wanting to explain to Mr. Carson why he'd been arrested on his afternoon off, he figured this was a good time to make his way out of the rally. Just as he turned to leave he witnessed a young woman being harassed by a man in his early 20s.

"Please give me back my book!" she exclaimed.

"Ahright missy but ya must plant a kiss first, then ya can have ya book and yer women's rights," he taunted holding the book high above the woman's head.

"You are being unfair, please give me back the book!" she pleaded in frustration.

Branson walked closer as he was certain he recognized the voice. And sure enough it was Lady Sybil! The man's back was turned to him so he acted quickly. Branson came from behind and grabbed the book from his hand. The bully was completely taken by surprised by his swift action.

"Here you are miss," Branson said as he handed Lady Sybil the book and stepped between the young man and his mistress.

"Wha ya think you're doin'? Tis none ya concerns mate. Tis between me 'n the little miss here," the bully warned.

"Believe ya me, tis my concern," Branson replied.

"Ah an Irishman that's buttin' inta me business, go back ta where ya came from and leaves us here alone. Seein' that ya wanna butt in ta where ya not wanted, I oughta…" the bully puffed up.

"No you oughta not….sir," Branson flexed back. Realizing he'd better get Lady Sybil away from danger, he shielded her and tactfully backed down from the fight that was surely brewing. The young man also realizing he'd best not take a swing with so many police nearby, abruptly backed off and disappeared into the crowd.

Branson turned around "Milady, are ya alright?" he said looking her over to make sure she was unscathed. "If I might say ya really shouldn't be here," he mildly chastised the young woman as he led her away to the edge of the crowd.

"Branson, thank you, I'm fine now that you're here" she stopped for a moment in the shade of a tree to catch her breath and get her wits about her. "I don't know what that man was going to do. You saved me from a lot of trouble."

"And not just with that bloke I suspect. Milady, if you don't mind me askin' just what _are_ you doing here in the park all alone?"

"The same reason you're here—the rally. I told Mama I wanted to go for a walk and find a quiet place to read," as she held up the book that had so interested her harasser. She then confessed, "but it was all a ruse. Please don't tell Mr. Carson or my father? They'll never let me out of the house again for the rest of our stay."

It was as he suspected her family had no idea she had come to the rally. Lady Sybil, he realized, was young and willful, and that spelled trouble. Thus he decided he would make sure she got back home to Grantham House safely. "I promise I won't tell milady. Just don't get in ta any more scrapes if you don't mind," he warned.

"I promise," she said. Then she told him, "I saw the notice for the rally in the last issue of _Common Cause_ you gave me. Since I was here in London I decided that I wanted hear the women speakers firsthand rather than read about them later on. Wasn't it exciting!" she said brimming over with enthusiasm as she looked back at the crowd who were now frantically yelling _"Votes for Women!"_

Realizing he was partly responsible for her attendance because she had learned about the rally from the pamphlets he had given her, he took a deep breath and replied, "Indeed, milady the speeches were exciting."

"Please must we keep up the formalities, at least amongst this crowd can we not be equals?" Lady Sybil asked earnestly.

Branson was surprised by her bold egalitarian suggestion, albeit charmingly naïve, that not only were they equal in gender, but also in social class. In response to her request for temporary social parity, "as you wish," was all that he could say.

"I thought the first speaker was filled with optimism and interesting ideas, don't you think?" she asked him.

"Yes, mil-," he caught himself, "Yes, Mrs. Despard* has been active with women and workers rights in Ireland. Now she and the other ladies are runnin' the WFL and havin' some success with their cause. Did ya know she spent time over'n India with a man who teaches non-violent ways of protestin'? She's what's called a pacifist."

"It means she wants peaceful means of achieving political change?" Lady Sybil furrowed her brow then thought out loud, "Violence is never good is it?"

"No rarely is it any good. I try ta stay away from it and fightin' in general, 'cept when I see unfairness," he said.

"Like that awful fellow who took my book you mean. I'm eternally grateful. To be honest I didn't quite know what I was going to do. It's Papa's book and very valuable. I certainly didn't want the police to get involved," she revealed, but this time he really began to sense she realized how much trouble she had actually gotten herself into.

"More than happy that I was here," he said noticing the police had begun to surround the crowd. "I think this may be a good time to leave before it gets too rowdy. Sounds like last week's labor rally sent a few to jail and the hospital," he told her hoping to get Lady Sybil to make a hasty exit with him.

"I so wanted to stay till the end, but you may be right," she conceded.

To which Branson breathed a sigh of relief. More than explaining to Mr. Carson his own arrest, how Lady Sybil ended up in at a boisterous rally certain to make the next day's newspapers would get him sacked for sure. He gently took her arm and guided her through the crowd. They began to walk toward a less congested area of the park.

"I'm so glad I ran into you. I've wanted to talk more about the pamphlets. Do you mind if we walk a little?"

"Of course mi-, of course not," he smiled as he again corrected himself. "Now that you've actually been to a rally what d'ya think about the votin' issue now?"

"Well I'm more convinced than ever women should be able to vote. And now I see why its such a threat to the way men control things."

"Indeed," he confirmed to his student. Feeling more relaxed now that they were away from the commotion he put his hands in his pockets as they walked along. "What d'ya think you'll do back home about it?"

"Well, I've taken on a little project," she said excitedly. "I'll tell you but you have to promise not to let onto Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes."

He nodded affirmatively, curious about what she had joined, perhaps a local women's group in Ripon.

"I'm helping Gwen find work as a secretary."

"You mean Gwen the housemaid?" he asked surprised by her confession.

"Exactly. That Gwen. She has a knack for secretarial work and wants to better herself, so I'm trying to help her. I've assisted her with finding secretarial advertisements to apply to," she said proudly. "You don't think its foolish do you?"

"No. No not at all. I'm sure Gwen appreciates your help and that you're interested," he replied.

"I'm trying to do what I can, but I want to do more," she added.

"Every little bit helps the cause and I'm sure you'll do a lot more when ya get the chance," he encouraged her realizing Lady Sybil was still only seventeen.

They stopped at a shaded bench overlooking the pond. "Can we sit a moment, it's been such a hot day, especially in that crowd." She took out a handkerchief to fan her face.

"If it pleases you," he said noticing her cheeks were flushed, and that she had a lovely way of turning her head to reveal her long neck. He sat down beside her, but at a comfortable distance.

"Why do you think women winning the vote is so important?" she wanted to know.

"You heard Mrs. Fawcett say there are more of you in this country than there are of us men, that's power. Plus I think women care more about people," he began. Then he looked out over the water and reflected, "My ma certainly did. She worked hard all her life but still had time for her little ones and to help others. She'd feed the poor that came by the house and tried to organize the women workers at the distillery."

"I'm impressed. She must be a remarkable woman," Lady Sybil complimented. "Is that where you get your activist spirit?" she asked.

"In part it was from her. Mostly it's from what I've seen out in the world, some of it not very pretty. People can be cruel and unjust to get what they want, what they believe they deserve. I reckon the old way of doin' things has to give way to new ones. And the laws have to change so's to make the world fairer for everyone," he replied.

"Not sure Papa would agree with that. And if there's too much change and too much equality Grandmother would say 'we'd become too much like those savage Americans, what's next buckskins?'" she mimed her grandmother's voice.

"But wouldn't ya be half-American anyways?" Branson laughed.

"Indeed I am! Truthfully I think that's where I get _my_ spirited ways. Granny made sure that Mary and Edith were proper English ladies, but I'm a whole other story—I think they all forgot about it by the time I came along. I could care less about such things though."

"The Dowager Countess I suspect has a lot of power in her own way."

"You are a very good read of people," she said looking into his eyes, perhaps surprised by his perceptiveness. "Granny does rule the family—though no one would ever concede it." Lady Sybil did not turn away but continued to stare at him very intently.

He thought it quite odd and decided to ask, "Lady Sybil is there something…" and before he could finish his sentence the distant chimes of a clock struck five o'clock.

"Branson, yet again, I seem to be taking up your precious time on your day off. Will you forgive me?" she asked.

"There's nothin' to forgive. Just glad I could help."

"But you must allow me to thank you properly. How about I buy you a lemonade—it'll cool us off on this insufferably hot day and be a reward for our little adventure?"

"I'd like that," he responded and stood up. "Thank you," he said offering his hand to help her up. And the two left this part of the park.

They strolled and continued to talk about the rally and the issue of women's rights. Eventually they arrived to the edge of the park and saw a pavilion nearby.

"How about that place?" she asked her escort.

Branson took a quick look at the finely manicured plants and elegant patrons. He realized it would be fine for her, but perhaps not for him, especially given his obvious of lack of wealth and position evidenced by his dress. Yes Sybil Crawley could be charmingly naïve he thought. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea. I think I know where we can go," he said and led her out of the park toward Grantham house.

They walked for three blocks and turned left, then walked down a quiet mews and stopped in front of what seemed to be a small inn—the Mason Arms. "Here it is." He opened the door for her to walk in.

"Hello there, they'll be two of ya? Come sit by the winda," said the stout proprietress.

"Thanks," Branson said to their hostess. He pulled back the chair for Lady Sybil.

"How quaint," she said looking over the place with its dark wooden beams on the ceiling and oversize hearth.

"It's been here for a very long time. Many of the folks who work in the big houses 'round here, come by ta eat on their days off. Mr. Bates says food's good."

"What'll the lovely couple be havin'," asked the woman who grinned widely at them both.

Sybil blushed profusely. Branson was tongue tied at her mistaken intimation. "We're not, no we're not. Ah we'll have two lemonades if you have it."

"We don't have that, but how 'bout two ginger beers," she winked and walked away.

"Beer, I've never had one," Lady Sybil confessed.

"Not quite the same thing, but its tasty. And sorry 'bout that, she must've thought we were a couple," Branson apologized.

"No need to apologize. I'm not exactly a child," she reminded him.

"No I can see that you're not." He realized after spending the day with her that she was a very beautiful young woman, one who will be quite stunning as she matured. "You've an independent streak that's quite remarkable, if you don't mind my sayin'. You've certainly a keen mind and want figure things out for yourself. You'll do well with whatever you want to do and wherever you want to go," he complimented her thinking about both her life beyond Downton and the man, the most likely very rich man, she'd marry someday—perhaps meeting such a fellow next summer.

"I want to read everything, know everything, travel the world," she said tipping her head back and nose in the air. "Sometimes Downton feels like a cage. But today I am so happy to be away from Grantham House and out on my own—well almost," she told him. "I'm so tired of all the talk about balls and dresses and the son of Viscount whoever may care," she lamented. "Please don't misunderstand me, I am grateful for everything—we've more than most people. But I yearn for something more meaningful, I want to _do_ more. Make a difference in some way. This may sound silly but helping Gwen gives my life some sense of purpose."

"No that doesn't sound silly at all, I remember when I was your age I'd just those notions. I too wanted to read everything I could get me hands on," he said as the proprietress brought them their drinks.

Sybil took a sip of the ginger beer, "its got bubbles!" Then she asked, "did you go to school at all?"

"I did till I was 'bout fourteen, then I had to work. Found a job in a garage for motorcars."

"So that's why you know so much about them."

"Yes. But my good fortune was that the teacher thought I was sharp and a fast learner. He was sorry to see me leave school, so he tutored me in the evenings and gave me books to read. I'd stay up late into the night, which annoyed my brothers to no end," he laughed. "They were always wonderin' why I was botherin' with learnin' all that stuff, if all I was goin' to do was work in a distillery or with me Pa on the tramways. But I had other ideas 'bout what I wanted to do with my life."

"So that's why you love Papa's library then," she inquired.

"Ah, the day I walked in there I couldn't believe all the ideas that were stored on those shelves. Thought me head would explode at the idea of it all. I barely could talk to his Lordship I was so in awe. But he's a generous employer lettin' us borrow books and all—never heard a such a thing."

"And so this is why you said you won't always be a chauffeur?" she asked.

"I'm itchin' for something else, just don't know what. Life in service has been good ta me and Downton's a fine job. But politics are fascinating and Ireland is gonna to change very quickly I reckon."

"And you want to be at the forefront of that change?"

"I suppose I do," he confessed.

"Well here's to a prosperous future…for everyone everywhere," Lady Sybil held up her glass.

"Here, here. I'll drink to that!" Branson thought it an amusing toast as he raised his glass and tapped hers.

"Oh heavens I wonder what time it is?" she asked remembering that she needed to get home. "There's a dinner party at Grantham House. Aunt Rosamund is coming and Mama will be vexed if I'm late yet again."

He pulled out his pocket watch, "It's a little past six o'clock. I'll get ya back home before the guests arrive." And he waved for the proprietress and gave her two bob for the drinks.

"Wait I was supposed to treat _you_ for helping me," Sybil protested.

"No its my pleasure and my treat," he kindly replied.

"So just how are we women going to gain our rights if you men keep taking care of us?" she decried.

"You've point there. Next time then you can pay," he promised.

"Next time then," she agreed as he pulled the chair for her.

They walked out into the street. The heat had subsided considerably in the sweet early evening air. They meandered their way over to Eaton Square and Grantham House. Once arrived at their destination Branson opened the gate for Lady Sybil. This is where they would part company.

"Branson, thank you again not only for all your help, but for a fun day in the park. You have no idea what it means for someone to see that I do have ideas and interests and take them seriously," she said sincerely.

"Milady," an address he thought was appropriate since they were back on the grounds of Grantham House and all those rules of duty now applied whether they wanted them to or not, "I was just glad I was there when ya needed me. But please just try to stay out of trouble if ya don't mind?"

"I assure you I will, good night," she bid.

"Good night milady," Branson bowed and walked down the stairs to the servant's entrance. She climbed up the stairs to the front door. Just before he made it to the last stair his instincts said to look up to make sure she was fine, and just then Lady Sybil had also stopped to look down. She waved and he waved back. He heard Mr. Carson's voice, _"Lady Sybil welcome back, we were beginning to worry."_

"_I'm sorry I was in sitting quietly in the park absorbed in my book. I guess I lost track of time,"_ Branson heard her say.

Mr. Carson stepped out on the porch and looked down, "Mr. Branson I trust all is well?"

"Very well Mr. Carson," he replied. Pleased at the turn of events on his day in the park, _Very well indeed_ he thought. And he too walked inside the busy house.

* * *

><p>*<em>Charlotte Despard was a BritishIrish activist who met Mahatma Ghandi in 1909. She founded the Women's Freedom League with two other women._


	6. Exchanges

_This fills in some interesting gaps and this story is at the midpoint – more to come. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 6 – Exchanges<p>

"So the valve 'round the piston takes in air…and mixes with the petrol?" Charlie asked Branson.

"No it's this here cylinder," Branson pointed out as the two looked into the engine of the Renault, "that mixes the air and petrol."

"Oh I see it then," said the young boy shaking his head.

"That's probably enough for today. I've got to get back into uniform in a little while and pick up old lady Grantham," Branson told his student as he shut the cover to the engine.

"Who'd ever thought a machine had this many parts and pieces," Charlie commented, still somewhat confounded by how it all went together. "Mr. Branson thanks, can I come 'round next week?"

"Certainly my lad, I'll be here," Branson told the page. He liked explaining the inner workings of automobiles to Charlie, perhaps he saw a bit of himself in the eager young man. He went to put away the tools in the back of the garage and find a towel to rub the thick oil off his hands.

As he turned around wiping his hands he detected the silhouette of a woman in the garage's doorway.

"Branson?" the person asked holding up a hand to her brow to shield the bright noontime sun, "are you in here?"

From the voice her realized that it was Lady Sybil. "Yes, milady I'm right here," he replied walking to the front of the garage. Besides formal greetings while he drove the family to and from engagements in London and now back at Downton, they had not spoken to each other again since their day in the park.

"I saw the young Charlie racing up to the main house from here, am I interrupting you?" she said noticing the apron and that his sleeves were rolled up. "I can come back if you are busy, it is not an urgent matter?"

"No was just finishin' up here. I was showing Charlie how these things work," he said gesturing to the motorcars parked in nearby

"My you're quite the tutor—first me, now Charlie. I'm impressed," she complimented.

"Thanks milady. It's a pleasure to show the lad the engine and all, its how I learned," he told her. Realizing that his mistress must be in need of something, he inquired "is there something I can help you with Lady Sybil? Sorry I'm out of uniform, these motorcars can be very dirty on their insides."

"No need to apologize. It is I—as always—who's bothering you. Might we talk for a moment?" she asked.

"Yes milady."

"I'm heading down to the brook to read on this lovely afternoon" she began, "would you mind walking with me at least part of the way?" she suggested. She was trying once again to topple the walls of social class that separated them Branson surmised.

"Certainly milady, let me take off this apron," he replied pulling it over his head. He felt a bit embarrassed to be out of uniform and in soiled work clothes, but he also wanted to comply with her request. He realized after their day in the park, he found her company most enjoyable—not as his mistress, but as a friend although he remained mindful of the very real social differences that prevented any personal affinity from blossoming into a true friendship.

* * *

><p>Branson closed the big doors of the garage then accompanied Lady Sybil down to the end of the road. As they walked into the forest, they saw in the distance Big Jim on his way to take care of some task around the estate. It was a warm sunny September afternoon and the leaves were just beginning to shed their green uniform and burst into a riotous panorama of reds, yellows, and oranges.<p>

"What can I help you with milady?" Branson began as they walked along.

"You see I can't very well ask Papa about this. My sisters will think it odd and unimportant, most likely they'd make fun of me. So you seem to be the only one who can help me," she stated.

"I'll try to assist in whatever way I can," he said trying to put her at ease and curious about her query. He always seemed to be coming to her rescue or help in some fashion.

"You see what I want to know is this: why are women's rights connected with the plight of workers and the poor? I guess I don't know enough to make the link. I find it mentioned in many of these writings," she raised her hand and he realized she was carrying the pamphlets he had given her. "Growing up here at Downton, I've been what some would call 'sheltered.' I really don't know much about how other people live, except what I see in the village and what I read in novels," she said in earnest.

"Well Dickens wasn't too far off," he declared. "Things have gotten better since his times, but not by much milady and not without a lot of struggle."

"But what does a woman's right to vote have to do with what people do for work?"

He took a moment to compose his response. "I'd say both are about domination in their own ways," he began trying to explain complicated political and economic ideas. "With workers it's the few over the many. Ya might say it's the rich dominating over the poor."

"So this then would implicate landowners like my father in this struggle?" she perceptively deduced and as such asked him a very pointed question.

Branson was reluctant to criticize his employer in front of his employer's daughter therefore he decided to wisely skirt the question. "And with you its powerful men dominating women—the head of the household intimidating the wife, to keep her in line for instance."

"Now I see why at the rally Mrs. Fawcett warned of the consequences of allowing women to vote."

"In part what needs to happen is votin' for sure. But also women deserve an education, you don't get the same schooling as men."

"I've experienced that one first hand. I so want to continue with my studies but I've been told only men go to university, women go to the altar," she uttered with a defeated tone in her voice and looked down at the fallen leaves as they continued along the path. Branson also sensed she was none too keen on being married off so young to some stuffy aristocrat or wealthy businessman either.

"And in many cases women can't own property either," he added and she looked up.

"Well, this is certainly why my sister Mary can't inherit Downton. Its caused such trouble in the family. Mind you I am fond of my cousin Matthew. But if Mary could have what's rightfully hers then she wouldn't have to pawn herself off on some male heir."

"Indeed milady. If you don't mind my saying, Lady Mary would be a very powerful woman if she inherited Downton." He then passionately uttered, "you women _are_ thinking individuals, you should have the same choices as us men. Imagine, just imagine if you didn't have to run households and the like, what women could do with their lives?"

She thought about it for a moment, "You mean if women like me weren't trained to host parties, sew needlework, and chatter away about nothing important, we could do so much more?"

"Absolutely," he affirmed. "This is why it relates to workers, it's your labor—housework, having babies, so to speak—it's what keeps you oppressed. And for poor women it's even worse."

"And for women like Gwen I suppose. A good reason to give her a chance at charting her own destiny, but so far I've failed miserably," she confessed.

"I'm sure if you keep trying you'll succeed with Gwen," he reassured her.

She stopped for a moment and turned toward him "You do feel passionately about this don't you, what ignited the spark, why do you care so much?"

He looked away, then back and revealed, "Well milady, I watched my mother work in a factory and take care of all of us day after day—it's demanding work, deadly work for sure. And women can't speak up same way as men, but they work just as hard for less money and most times for no money," he told her. Regaining his composure he added "and like I said before I read a lot milady. There's some books in his Lordship's library that explain it in better than I can."

"Papa's library has such books?" Lady Sybil asked angling her head in disbelief.

"I gather that his Lordship and those before him wanted to know the ideas of their day. So look for a book with the title: _The Subjection of Women_, I believe I saw it near the books about economics."

"I'll do that," she replied affirmingly to his suggestion. "I'm sorry Branson I don't mean to be a pest, but I want to know more about these things and you seem to be the one who can help me. You're very good at making the most muddled things crystal clear. Charlie's in good hands," she beamed at him.

"Thank you milady," he said, feeling immensely gratified that his ideas were having an impact on someone who may have the position and means to do something impactful. "I'd best be going back, I have to fetch the Dowager Countess for tea with her Ladyship."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hold you up with my silly questions."

"No, they're questions important to you. And I'm more than pleased to contribute to your education," he smiled back at her. "Milady," he bowed and turned to walk away.

After he went he few yards he heard, "Branson wait," she yelled and ran over to him. "Please I meant to return these to you. I've had them far too long. And thank you again." Lady Sybil handed him the pamphlets. "Oh but I seemed to have forgotten one!"

"You can give it Anna or Gwen if you like, I can pick it up in the servant's hall."

"No I'd like to keep this between us if you don't mind—if Granny got wind I'll be both excommunicated and exiled. On my next walk this way, I'll leave it on your doorstep if you're out," she said.

"There's a wooden box on the step you can leave it in there." He nodded once more and left her to continue her walk down to the brook.

* * *

><p>While cleaning up to put on his uniform, Branson reflected on this recent encounter with Lady Sybil. He was utterly perplexed by her inquisitiveness about social reform. He could see why she might be interested in women's rights, but he'd never encountered one from her class, let alone so young, who wanted to know about poverty and working conditions. <em>She was quite unusual. Smart as whip. And certainly had the most beautiful eyes<em>, he pleasantly reflected as he pulled on his boots.

Once dressed he decided he'd leave something for Lady Sybil to read when she dropped off the last pamphlet. If she was so interested in class relations, why not give her something from Cristobel Pankhurst. On his way out he dropped the book into the wooden box with note saying to return it when she wished. When he came back from his evening duties, he opened the box. Lady Sybil had indeed returned the pamphlet and retrieved the book.

This ritual between them occurred on several occasions over the next few months. Branson would leave something in the box with a note why he thought it would be important reading, and Lady Sybil returned the previous material with a note and question that he answered in his next note.

* * *

><p>One evening in late October while waiting to drive the Crawley's back to the village he sat reading in the servants hall. Anna was mending a blouse and Gwen was sorting through some material scraps. Mr. Bates came in and sat down to read the newspaper. The two exchanged greetings, "John," "Tom."<p>

"So what ya reading there," Bates asked as he opened his newspaper.

"A book on working class conditions, it's the famous one by Engels," he said looking up at Mr. Bates. He enjoyed debating ideas with the well-travelled valet.

"Be careful about that one or they'll think you're a radical round here," Bates joked.

"Just because I might read Marx on occasion, I'm not one for burnin' down Parliament or anything of the sort," Branson lobbed back at Bates.

Miss O'Brien came in to join them with a cup of tea in her hand. "Did I hear somethin' about burnin' down Parliament?" she asked insinuating herself into the conversation as she usually did. But Branson didn't mind, it kept things lively.

"No you didn't hear that Miss O'Brien," Anna corrected her misperception. Gwen looked up from what she was doing and cracked a smile. "I've read that things have been getting riled up with the women protesters, fire bombs and such. Didn't some try burn down the houses of those politicians denyin' them the vote?"

"Well some think that violence is the way to change things. I myself prefer more peaceful means," Branson told Anna.

"But you do want things to change then, for us to be out of our positions here at Downton?" O'Brien hastily alleged.

"He didn't say he wanted us thrown _out_ of Downton, he said he wanted things to change," Bates reminded O'Brien.

"We work hard Miss O'Brien, why shouldn't we be rewarded our fair share?" Branson asked the prideful and calculating lady's maid.

She took a sip of tea. "I can certainly say round her ya can work as hard as ya like, but there are those who come in and get the best positions. So you're right hard work doesn't pay off," she scoffed with an accusation directed at Mr. Bates. But she wasn't done. "And I heard lately that some are gettin' rather close to their betters upstairs—that spells trouble if ya asked me. So I guess there're also other ways to move up besides workin' hard?" she aimed her malice at Branson.

Bates and Branson were seething at the unfair accusations. He couldn't believe what she had just accused him of doing, let alone how she could possibly know of his exchanges with Lady Sybil.

"Well I think women should be able ta do what they like," Gwen piped up, an uncharacteristic gesture for the usually shy housemaid.

"So you fancy yourself above your position do ya?" O'Brien turned her spitefulness toward Gwen.

"No I just said I think women should be able to follow their ambitions," Gwen rallied back.

"I agree, we women should vote and do even more; we should be able to do what we want," Anna joined Gwen to argue for women's rights.

Just then Mrs. Hughes entered the room, "Before you two do what you want, you best be getting upstairs to do what your employers want. Gwen the fires need starting and Anna I believe Lady Mary needs your assistance in her room."

"Yes Mrs. Hughes," chimed Anna and Gwen, who quickly stopped what they were doing and rushed up the stairs.

"And that means you too Miss O'Brien. I believe her Ladyship's planned on retiring early," Mrs. Hughes reminded her difficult charge. "Mr. Branson the Crawleys are preparing to leave for the evening."

"Thank you Mrs. Hughes," Branson replied. "Goodnight Mr. Bates," and he got up, put on his jacket and drove the car around front.

* * *

><p>Daisy brought over his basket on the chilly December morning. She came in for a moment to warm up and relay a message.<p>

"This arrived in the mail for ya Mr. Branson," and she handed him a letter. "And Mr. Carson says to tell ya Lady Sybil now wants to go to Ripon at nine o'clock not half past," Daisy told him.

"Thank you Daisy. I appreciate the basket of warm food this mornin'," he said to the young kitchen maid. "You'll see your family this holiday?"

"Yes, I get a full day off after Boxin' Day. Me folks are just two villages over. You're a long way from home this Christmas aren't ya?"

"I am, so I'll not be goin' back home to Ireland any time soon."

"Well I'm sure our dinner will make up for it. His Lordship treats us real nice for Christmas," she said. "Oh, with a big meal to do fer tonight Mrs. Patmore 'll be wondering where I've gone off ta. Good bye," she waved and hurried out of the door.

He opened the basket, inside under the towels was a warm bowl of porridge and a scone. As he ate the porridge, he opened the letter—it was from his father. He wrote to say that everyone was in good health. He wished him a Merry Christmas. He also wrote that his younger brother Tim had come to work on the tramways, but that there was a big strike looming, so things were going to get tough if they both were out of work.

He folded the letter. A strike in the winter months, this did not bode well he thought. Because it wasn't just a strike for better wages, but tied to home rule it could be a lengthy one. He would try to send a little more money the next month to help them out if things did go awry.

He glanced over at the small photograph of his mother that sat on his shelf of books. He missed his family and was sorry to be far away, especially when he knew he could be of help. But he also strongly felt there he was meant to do something more and was beginning to figure out what that was. He quickly finished his porridge, closed up the basket, and went out into the brisk morning air to start up the car.

* * *

><p>Mr. Carson had informed Branson that he would be driving Lady Sybil to Ripon because she wanted to purchase Christmas presents for her family. When she stepped into the vehicle wrapped in her warm winter coat, she cordially greeted him. Right away she asked if he would make one additional stop before taking her to the various shops and handed him a slip of paper with the address.<p>

He found the location easily as it was not too far off the high street. "Here we are milady," Branson informed her as he pulled in front of a shop whose windows were covered by curtains.

"Thank you Branson. I won't be long I promise," Lady Sybil assured him.

He got out and waited patiently for her. She returned from inside in less than thirty minutes.

"Branson I think you would be proud of me," she confidently stated with a wide grin on her face.

"Why's that milady?" he asked opening the door for her.

She stood for moment with her hand on her hips and said: "you are looking at the newest member of the Ripon chapter of the National Union of Women's Suffrage Societies!"*

"You've joined the Women's Suffrage Society? Why, why that's quite remarkable," he replied completely taken aback by her bold step, although he was fairly certain that her family wasn't apprised of this decision beforehand. Lady Sybil sat down in the automobile and he shut the door.

With her gloved hands grasping open window, she leaned forward. "But please don't tell my family. I told Cousin Isobel who approved, but Granny and Mama will lock me in the attic if they discovered I've joined," she pleaded with him.

"Milady, they won't hear it from me. Can I ask what prompted you to join?"

"The recent issue of _Common Cause _you gave me listed all of their societies. I discovered there was one here in Ripon. With the by-elections coming up in the spring I want to get involved in rallying supporters to vote in Liberal MPs who will get behind the suffrage bill."

"Looks like you're taking the reigns and gettin' involved. I'm impressed milady," he complimented her. And he was indeed pleased she had the courage to act on her convictions.

"I have you to thank you know. Your tutoring me about these issues has really awakened me to politics," she graciously told him. "I don't think you realize the impact you've had in…" but she trailed off and the two stared at each other for a second or more.

"I…I'd best be gettin' ya to your errands milady and then back to Downton. I believe there's a big family dinner this evenin'" he said as he went around to the front to crank the engine and then slid behind the wheel.

"Yes it's our Christmas Eve dinner tonight and all will be there. I just wish I could tell them my news."

"I'm sure they'll know soon enough milady," he said as he put the car in gear.

* * *

><p>It had been an extremely busy day. After he returned Lady Sybil and her many packages back to Downton, he had to drive his Lordship to another estate nearby, and then pickup the Crawley's and the Dowager Countess for dinner. When he returned from his last trip it was close to midnight. He parked the Renault in the garage. He was quite tired and looked forward to a sound sleep. As he went to open the door of the cottage, he noticed a wrapped package sitting on top of the wooden box. He picked it up and took it inside.<p>

Perhaps it was also from his Pa or something from his brother in Liverpool. But he noticed there was no return address on it besides his name: Mr. Tom Branson.

Curious about the contents, he sat down and unwrapped it. Someone had given him two books. One was Mill's _On Social Freedom_ and the other was a beautifully illustrated volume of Morris' _News from Nowhere_. He had not read either book, so he was excited to have received them. But who were they from? Inside one of the covers he found a note and opened it:

_24 December 1913_

_Mr. Branson,_

_Please accept these two books as a token of my gratitude for all of your kindness and assistance these past few months. As I tried to say earlier today, but did so rather poorly, your tutelage has opened a new horizon of possibilities for me and for that I am eternally in your debt._

_I realize you are far from home this Christmas and want to wish you good cheer this holiday season._

_I am yours sincerely,_

_Sybil Crawley_

Branson was heartened by her gesture, it was clearly offered with the best of intentions. He was also impressed by her choice of reading material for him. For someone who was self-described as "sheltered" Lady Sybil was certainly full of surprises.

As he drifted off to sleep he reflected upon the fact that he was far away from Ireland and his family this Christmas, however in many ways, some he couldn't quite name as of yet, Downton Abbey was beginning to feel like home.

* * *

><p><em>*There was a chapter of the National Union of Women's Suffrage Societies in Ripon.<em>


	7. The Uninvited

_A chapter of surprises. Thanks for the comments and reviews – they're fun to read. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 7 – The Uninvited<p>

_Knock, knock._

_Branson_ heard at his door as he finished buttoning up his shirt.

He opened it and there stood Daisy with his breakfast basket and right behind her Charlie lugging a pail of coal.

"Well I get both you this morning eh?" Branson observed as the two came into the cottage. "Thank you Daisy," he greeted her.

"I watched Mrs. Patmore prepare it Mr. Branson, she's made ya a feast this mornin'. You're the only one 'round here on staff she treats like the king, I don't think she'd do this for Mr. Carson even."

"Well she knows I have a hearty appetite," he informed her taking the basket. "What brings you here Charlie?"

"Just wonderin' if you were going to work on the motorcars today? For the life of me couldn't figure out the gear sequence ya taught me last week," asked the lanky young man who was already looking like a footman in his uniform. His ma was right he was going to be tall.

"Sorry Charlie after I down Mrs. Patmore's fine meal, I'm scheduled to drive her Ladyship and Lady Mary into the village this morning. Then I get the afternoon off. My plan is to look at a good book, not an oily engine."

"Lucky you Mr. Branson, wished I had more time off. That kitchen is like the army I tell ya, I'm always on alert," cried Daisy as she headed for the door.

"Well I suspect Mrs. Patmore's got some more maneuvers for you this morning." Branson chuckled as the kitchen maid left the cottage.

"I think she's kinda sweet on ya Mr. Branson," Charlie speculated.

"No my lad. She's got eyes for Thomas. Though I think it's the task of Sisyphus," he updated the young man on the servants' gossip.

"Who's task is she supposed to do?" Charlie asked perplexed by the reference.

"Sisyphus. The Greek myth. King rolls big boulder up a hill only to have it roll back down. He gets nowhere. In other words Daisy is going to get nowhere if she's sweet on Thomas," he explained to Charlie.

"Cause he's got a girl already?" Charlie then asked.

"Something like that," he shook his head and sat down to eat.

"Well I've got plenty of tasks of me own to do. Like I'm supposed to be movin' furniture this mornin' so I'd better run. Thanks for the Greek lesson today Mr. Branson," and the young man ran out the door.

Branson opened the basket to find a robust plate of eggs, beans, bacon, sausage, and rolls. _Feast was an understatement,_ he thought as he raised the first savory bite to his mouth.

_Knock, knock, knock,_ came from someone at the door. He got up to answer it.

"Sorry Mr. Branson. Got halfway there, I forgot the pail o' coal," Charlie said breathing heavily from running back to the cottage.

Branson reached down and handed it back to him, "Now off with ya!"

"Thanks Mr. Branson!" he yelled as he ran back up to the house.

Branson saw Big Jim returning from his morning chores. It looked like his sack was stuffed with birds. He didn't realize groundskeepers were also permitted to hunt on the estate's property, other than to catch the occasional predator.

"Mornin'" Branson yelled. But Big Jim just grumbled as always and lumbered on past the cottage. After almost a year he still hadn't cracked through the gruff man's armor.

* * *

><p>Branson looked up from the pages of his book, the brook was pregnant from the melting winter snow. He found the hush of the water rushing over the rocks quite soothing.<p>

It had been a little over a year since he left Ireland to look for work in England. It was exactly a year since that fight in the Liverpool bar. And soon it would be a year since he found his position at Downton Abbey. He welcomed the calm in his life; equilibrium had supplanted turbulence. That fact pleased him immensely, although he felt a tinge of isolation up here in the wilds of North Yorkshire. He yearned to get involved in the changes that were happening elsewhere. He wanted to be a part of the protests, join the strikes that were forging a new social order. And lastly he reckoned that it had been well over a year since he had had any steady female companionship. It may be time to plot his next move.

Far in the distance he saw a figure approaching. At first he thought it might be one of the groundskeepers and he returned to his book. A few minutes later the figure reappeared from the dense forest and crossed the brook several yards down. He discerned it was a woman. Eventually her presence became known. She wore a light beige coat and flowered cotton dress, and she carried a book in her hand. Her raven hair was tucked under a blue wool hat, "Branson, reading again in my favorite place I see," Lady Sybil asked as he stood up to greet her.

"Indeed milady, it's a grand spring afternoon and it's my day off. I see you're also partaking in the beauty of the forest as well, though from the looks of it I think it might rain."

"Now that it's warming up I can roam the estate as I wish, find my spots, except when they're taken," she teased. "What's that you're reading?"

"I'm finishing up Yeats'_ The Wind Upon the Reeds_."

"Of course—an Irishman. Why I didn't know you also enjoyed verse," she said intrigued by a chauffeur who also read poetry.

"I read and enjoy many things, milady."

"Would you read something to me?" she said sitting down on a nearby rock.

"If you like," he said ruffling through the pages. "How about this one:

O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes,  
>The poets labouring all their days<br>To build a perfect beauty in rhyme  
>Are overthrown by a woman's gaze<br>And by the unlabouring brood of the skies:  
>And therefore my heart will bow, when dew<br>Is dropping sleep, until God burn time,  
>Before the unlabouring stars and you.*<p>

He looked down trying to gauge her response.

"Read beautifully. That's very moving. I guess it's the poets job to write about love and loss."

"Well I think that poets see the world in a way that makes most of the things we overlook seem special and unique."

"But I think love is something that most who are destined for marriage overlook," she commented, particularly perceptive for one so young.

"That I cannot argue with milady," he agreed. And suddenly he felt a drop of water. He looked up at the early spring canopy of leaves. "I think it's going to rain milady."

"I think you are right," she replied as a few more drops hit the ground. And before they both knew it they were caught in a heavy spring rain.

* * *

><p>The rain pelted them as the two dashed back to Downton Abbey. Lady Sybil slipped and fell down on the steep section of the path now turned to mud. Branson held out his hand to help her back up. Rather than try to make it up to the main house, which was another few minutes away along a muddy drive, he deftly unlocked the garage door latch with one swift turn. And they ducked in there to get out of the storm.<p>

First he lit a lamp to give them some illumination. Second, because Lady Sybil was soaked through to the bone, he needed find something for her to use to dry off. He searched around the garage, but all he could find were oily dirty cloths.

"Milady wait here. I'll go find something for you to dry off with. Have a seat in one of the motor cars," he suggested.

Lady Sybil stood shivering with her arms wrapped around her torso trying to warm up, "Yes, yes I will do that." She took off her now deformed hat, and tossed it and her wet book on the seat of the Renault. Her hem was covered in mud and she had ripped her stocking.

"I'll be right back." He opened the garage door to see if anyone was around. He could easily explain why a disheveled Lady Sybil was stuck in the garage, but he'd rather not have to. He went next door to the cottage.

Once inside, he went to the rear and found a towel on the shelf. He also grabbed a blanket lying nearby. Before he could stand up, he heard the front door open and close. Just what he needed right now, a visit from Daisy or Charlie.

"Charlie, what d'ya forget this…," he yelled emerging from the back. He then realized it was neither junior staff, but Lady Sybil. "This isn't a good idea milady. You really shouldn't be here. No you can't be here. Please go back to the garage," he requested. She certainly knew the rules of staff she'd been around servants all her life. But he also knew given her mischievous nature that he wasn't going to get his way.

"It was so cold in there, I needed to warm up. I thought you might have a stove or fireplace. Plus I think I hurt my leg," she sniffed soaking wet and appearing quite pathetic.

He looked down at her leg and noticed a scarlet streak inside the tear of her beige stockings. He surmised that when she slipped she also scraped her calf on a stone or branch. "Here milady, sit down," he motioned to one of the chairs. "You have hurt your leg. Take this to dry yourself. Then wrap this 'round ya," he instructed as he handed her the towel and blanket. He pointed toward the back "I'll get a wet cloth to sooth the cut on your leg."

Branson was weary of this entire situation. He needed to get her to out of the cottage. If anyone saw the Earl's youngest daughter in his lodgings he'd be sacked right away—no questions and no defense. But on the other hand she really was suffering and in pain—and that's what compelled him to act.

When Branson returned he noticed Lady Sybil was fumbling to get her shoe off. "I can't get the button it hurts too much. Can you help me?" she looked up at him with an expression of utter vulnerability—her brow furrowed and face framed by tousled damp hair.

This would certainly constitute improper contact between a chauffeur and his mistress according to Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson, but this was also an emergency. "Alright milady," Branson conceded and pulled up a stool. "Put your foot here," he patted his own wet knee. He unbuttoned the leather strap and carefully slid it off. He noticed she winced.

"The pain's sharp," she grimaced and tried to reach down to touch her ankle, "ouch" but could quite reach it.

He squeezed around her ankle gently till she flinched. He found the sore spot. "Looks like ya also may have banged or worse twisted your ankle, that's why it hurts so much. Place this on the cut and put your foot on the stool. Try not to move too much. Puttin' it up should help some. I'll start a fire that'll warm you for sure." He handed her the damp cloth and stood up.

She placed it on the cut, "thank you, you're very kind and caring."

He put some logs in the fireplace and lit them. The small room blazed with light and radiated warmth.

"Ahh," she said as she put her foot down on the chair. "You always seem to come to my rescue" she turned up a faint smile toward him as the pain eased.

"Milady, it'd be best to wait for the rain to stop, then I'll drive ya up to the house. How about I make you a cup of tea in the meantime?" he asked her, accepting that he was going to have to make do with their unusual situation.

"I'd like that very much," she said. "The pain is getting better now," she informed him. "Hmm, a man who can make a pot of tea, don't see that too often," she complimented as he fired the stove. She looked quizzically around the room. He suspected she'd rarely if ever been in a servant's lodgings and definitely not one of the male servant's rooms. Soaked as well, he also grabbed a cloth to dry himself off.

"My ma wanted all us boys to be able to do for ourselves."

"I always wished I had a brother. How many brothers do you have?"

"I've an older one and a younger one. Then there are two more girls, but they're much younger. My ma didn't expect to have any girls so we learned it all before they came along. Can cook a little too."

"Mama wouldn't let us near the kitchen. Though as a little girl I would sometimes sneak downstairs and Mrs. Patmore would let me stir a bowl while standing on a chair," she spoke fondly of her youth. She watched him fill the pot with tea and place two cups on the table. He went to fetch the now boiling kettle.

"Now that must have been a sight, you in ya braids I'd imagine, in the middle of the kitchen with all the kitchen maids scurrying about," he laughed. "Alright with no milk?" he said pouring the water into the pot. He also opened a canister of biscuits and found a plate.

"It's fine so long as it's warm," she replied. "You really do read a lot," she observed scanning his collection of books. She stared at the delicately framed image on the shelf. "Is that your mother in the photograph?" Lady Sybil inquired, "She's very beautiful."

He turned his head toward the photograph, "Yes she was." He then poured the tea into the cups and handed one to her.

"Oh, please I'm so sorry I did not realize she had passed away. How sad for you," she offered in sympathy.

"Thank you milady." Her compassion touched something he hadn't felt before. "She died last spring, it was very…" he trailed off as he tried to stave off the emotions welling up; he had rarely discussed her death with anyone, it had been a major blow. He still had not recovered enough to feel completely himself. But since he took the position at Downton he was beginning to fill the gaping hole in his heart.

"Was it sudden?"

"Yes, she was killed at the distillery where she worked. A large crate fell on her. She died instantly."

"How horrid!" she gasped. "I am very sorry for you, and your family."

He nodded but could not muster a reply.

"I suspect she must have been very proud of you, of what you've accomplished?" she then asked sensing his anguish and trying to shift their conversation onto a more sanguine topic.

"She was tryin' to organize the women workers so's they were paid better wages and improve the shop conditions for the bottling side of the factory. Needless ta say the bosses didn't like it or her very much," he revealed.

"So this is why you told me you get your activist spirit from your mother."

"She'd work all day, then come home and take care of all of us. She's the one who wanted me to stay in school, but my father convinced her we needed the money," he said looking down at his cup of steaming tea. "She was very kind. She always had hope. Graceful, that's what I remember. I'd be lucky to find someone like her for a wife."

"Some woman will be very fortunate to marry a man like you," she replied. He looked up at Lady Sybil somewhat surprised by her response. She smiled warmly and added, "Your mother does sound remarkable. I'd like to have met her."

"Funny, at times you remind…" he began to say, but realized what it implied and to whom. He looked out of the window for a moment.

"I remind you of?" she asked urging him to finish his sentence. She reached over and gently touched his hand to get his attention. Her hand was soft and delicate. "You were going to say?"

Instead, he responded, "I think that the rain's lettin' up. I'd better get you back to the main house before they worry. How's you foot now milady?" he stood up letting her hand fall away.

She put her foot down on the floor and put weight on it, "much better, now that you've worked your magic I think. But I'm afraid no long walks for me for a while."

"You probably just banged it. I'll back the car out in front of the door."

"Yes, I can go in the back entrance of the house. I must look a frightful mess," she said looking down at her rumpled muddied dress.

"No milady you look…no worse for the wear," he tried to reassure her, noticing how the firelight danced in her eyes.

"You are too kind," she told him as she stood and tried to balance, looking again over at the photograph, "but now I know where you get that from."

Branson pulled the car in front of the cottage. He glanced around to make sure no one saw him. He opened the door and helped Lady Sybil into the motorcar. He drove her up to the servant's entrance. As they walked across the threshold, they saw Mr. Carson heading into the butler's pantry.

"Lady Sybil, are you hurt? What on earth happened to you? We were beginning to worry," asked Mr. Carson as he rushed to her aid. He took over from Branson.

"I'm fine Carson. I foolishly got caught in the rainstorm while out for a walk. I fell trying to get out of the rain. Branson here was working in the garage. He saw me in distress and gallantly came to my assistance. He gave me a lift up to the house," she informed the head butler. "Thank you Mr. Branson for everything," she grinned radiantly back at him as Mr. Carson helped her through the hallway.

"Twas no bother milady, just glad you're safe and sound," he bid her.

"I'll send for Dr. Clarkson," Mr. Carson suggested.

"_No need. Cousin Isobel will be here for dinner, she can look at it. I just banged my ankle,"_ he heard her say as she navigated the stairs.

Branson was glad she got home safely and felt somewhat relieved that their afternoon sojourn in his cottage had escaped anyone's notice.

* * *

><p>Branson suddenly woke up. He was sweating even though the room was cold. <em>A dream, one about his mother, about a farewell,<em> he remembered. What was she trying to tell him? Why was he dreaming about her now? Was it because he had told Lady Sybil about her tragic death earlier in the day? He heard a faint tapping sound. _Ya hearing things and seeing ghosts, _he thought to himself. He felt unsettled. He needed some water.

_Tap, tap, tap,_ he heard it again. This time he got out of bed.

_Tap, tap_, it was at the front window. He walked to the door and opened it, looked around. It was dead silent. _Must have been part of the dream._

"Finally there ya are. Twas like tryin' to wake the dead," he heard in a hush voice. "You were always a hard sleeper Tom Branson."

Still groggy he recognized the voice, "Tim is that you?"

"Indeed its me."

And so it was. At his doorstep appeared his younger brother—Tim Branson.

* * *

><p><em>The title of Yeats' poem is "He Tells of the Perfect Beauty"<em>


	8. Out of the Darkness

_The last chapter was a bit of a cliffhanger—so I wanted to know what happened next. Thanks for the comments and reviews, enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 8 – Out of the Darkness<p>

"Come on in," Branson reluctantly welcomed Tim in from the cold dark night. He lit a lamp.

"Thanks, its been a fright cold gettin' caught in the rain 'n all," Tim told his older brother as he entered the cottage.

"Ah, go ahead have a seat," Branson said as he looked over his younger brother trying to figure out why he showed up in the middle of the night this far away from Dublin. He started a fire to warm up his road weary sibling. "How's Pa and the girls?"

"Pa's fine. Now that the strike's windin' down he's eager to get back to work. A messy business that strike was. But ya should see the girls now! Rose is to my shoulder and Jeanne, well she's the spittin image of Ma," Tim apprised Branson while looking around the cottage. "Nice place Tom. You're on your own, not in the big house eh? This is all yours then? Ya got all your books of course—still readin' into the wee hours? And ya have Ma's picture—I miss her."

"First off, it's not my cottage it's his Lordships," he corrected with a heavy sigh. "And second, Tim, what the devil are you doin' here? Ya know the rules. They're the same everywhere: I can't have any visitors. You should've sent me a note to meet you in the village. I can get into a heap 'o trouble, lose my place and be out of work."

Tim got up and walked over to the hearth. "I waited till nightfall. Sat in the rain all day outside the gate in the woods there. Saw you drive by in that fancy motorcar and snuck in after dark. Been hidin' behind the barn till things got quiet…" he paused to see how his brother responded to his sudden appearance.

"Alright, ya must be cold and hungry. Sit, I'll give you some tea and a little something to eat, then you're to be on your way, out of here before daybreak," Branson informed his brother as he put on the kettle. _"Blast another visitor! Trouble be gone Tom Branson,"_ he mumbled under his breath.

"What's that you're sayin' Tom?" Tim asked.

"Why are you visiting now—all this way? And I know its not because you miss gettin' beat by your brother," he said half-jokingly to Tim, who was one year younger and had the same fair hair and blue eyes. But Tim was about four inches taller and almost two stones heavier. Since Branson was smaller and nimbler, he could always out maneuver his not-so-little-brother when they tussled.

"Ah the battlin' Branson brothers. We gave 'em hell didn't we? Ya still have a mean right Kevin says," Tim reminisced.

"Indeed we did. And that fight in Liverpool was me last one!" Branson smiled at Tim. "Dear brother I'm stayin' away from trouble these days. And how'd you see Kevin anyway, was he back home?"

"No Liverpool, he's the one sent me here. He and Katie said you'd be able to help. Besides Ma, you've always been the most level-headed in the family—must be all those books you've read."

The kettle boiled. He went to retrieve it. "You need help with what?"

"Well, ya see…" Tim hesitated.

"Help with what Tim?" Branson asked again.

"Ya might say I finished what you started," Tim cryptically replied. Then he uttered one name: "Martin Donnelly."

"Martin Donnelly? Christ!" Branson replied dropping his head back, overwhelmed by the resurrection of a past demon. Intuitively he knew where this was going and it wasn't going to be pleasant. That name had been nothing but trouble all his life.

"He's dead."

The blood drained from his face and Branson sat down with a thud. "Please don't tell me ya had anything ta do with it? Please no."

"It was an accident, I swear. But Tom ya can't argue that that son of Satan got what he deserved…finally," Tim looked over at his brother seeking affirmation.

But Branson didn't quite know how to sort out the rush of emotions. Tim was right Donnelly had caused his family immense pain—irreplaceable loss. And retribution was a seductive cause. However, he also knew violence never led to anything good, except more violence.

"So you're in a heap a trouble. And ya want my help then? Tell me what happened," he said as he poured the tea.

"Donnelly and his boys came after me, 'cause they know I support the union. His spies reported I'd said strong words at one of the union meetings, but so did a lot of other folks. You know why they do it, who pays 'em, and what they can do," he looked over at his brother. Then Tim continued with his story: "They ambushed me while I was comin' home one night. It was behind the foundry—four against one. So I defended myself like Pa taught us only if provoked. The three goons hit me right good, still black and blue on me sides. Donnelly ducked my first swing, tripped backwards, and hit his head on a cobblestone. Blood was everywhere. So's I ran before his boys came after me. He didn't make it and now they're sayin' I killed 'em. But it was an unfair fight and I didn't even touch him. I'm sure Donnelly picked me 'cause I was your brother," Tim finished and raised his cup to his mouth.

"From Pa's last letter and what I read in the newspapers the strike's been stirring up old tensions. But I'd thought with my leavin' some things could stay in the past," Branson asserted, "but some things I guess can't stay buried. I'm sorry ya had to deal with Donnelly."

"Tom, like I said he finally got what he deserved…a place in hell."

* * *

><p>Branson spent the week trying to figure out what to do about Tim's problem. He'd given his brother some money and told him to take a room at Mrs. Beechams in the village. He didn't have a full day off again for another two weeks, but would get an afternoon off depending on how his schedule went. He'd send word to Tim when he could see him again.<p>

He soon realized he couldn't take care of this on his own but wasn't sure where to turn. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes would be aghast to know the trouble his brother was in and that it was connected to his own recent past. He decided to talk to Mr. Bates about it. He could trust him, plus he had this inkling that Bates himself had gotten into scrapes from time to time. One evening before the valet had his dinner, he pulled him aside. The two walked outside in the rear yard to talk in confidence.

"John, my brother's in some trouble and I'm not sure what to do. He's come up here to ask for my help," Branson started.

"All the way from Dublin I presume. What kind of trouble is he in?" asked Bates.

"The worst kind. And its big—it includes a dead man," Branson replied.

"Now that's some trouble," Bates said scratching his head and leaning against the stone wall of the house.

"I've been mulling it over all week. Tim's staying in the village for now—but he's got to go back home. He can't stay here and it'd be worse if he ran."

"Has he been in trouble before?"

"No, other than the usual turf war stuff as a boy, but never arrested. As you know there's been big strikes all throughout the city. The man he's charged with killing was a known snoop and hooligan. I feel partly responsible as Tim was targeted because of some old trouble I had with this fellow. I've got to get him the right help, preferably the legal kind. But I can't leave, I'll lose my position. How can I do something all the way from here?"

"The legal kind of help would be best, trust me," Bates said rubbing his jaw. "How about talking to Mr. Crawley—he's a solicitor?"

"I don't want Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson to find out, let alone his Lordship. Not sure that's best."

"Mr. Crawley if ya haven't figured out is not quite one a them, at least not yet. Plus he's an attorney, so I'm fairly sure you can trust his confidence. Wouldn't hurt to try."

"Maybe you're right. I've got to approach him just…" Branson started but he was interrupted by Daisy who poked her head out of the door.

"Oh there y'are. Mr. Bates dinner's on the table. And Mr. Branson, Mrs. Hughes says to tell ya since noone upstairs is comin' for dinner you can join us for your dinner."

"Thanks Daisy. And thanks John, I'll let ya know what happens."

And the two headed in for their meal.

* * *

><p>He needed to approach Mr. Crawley but didn't know just how given the sensitivity of the problem. He needed a liaison, someone he could trust.<p>

While he had driven Lady Sybil with her sisters into the village for luncheon at the Crawleys, they hadn't been alone together since the day in his cottage. Fortunately her ankle had heeled quickly and he hadn't heard anything more about it—so no one had seen her near his lodgings.

He'd been asked to drive Lady Sybil into Ripon. She told her parents she was meeting with a charity group, but the address of her destination was the Suffrage Society. He waited patiently around the corner for Lady Sybil to finish with her meeting. He decided he would talk to her about how to approach her cousin the solicitor.

On their drive back he asked her about the afternoon's events. Lady Sybil sounded excited because she would soon be canvasing for voters since the bye elections were going to be in a month. But she was going to have to figure out how and when to break the news to her mother. Branson told her that telling Lady Grantham would be wise and the sooner the better. Just before he got to Downton's gate he pulled the motorcar over to the side of the road.

"Branson is there a problem?" Lady Sybil asked.

"Milady, you might say there is," he replied turning around in the front seat. "But not with the vehicle."

"What's wrong then?" she inquired now leaning forward in her seat.

He confessed: "I'm in some trouble, well not me but it's related to me. You once said you were in my debt, so I was wondering if I could collect on your offer."

"Of course you can Branson. You've been so kind to me. You've patiently answered my naïve questions. You've shared your library with me. You've gotten me out of trouble more than once and healed a bad ankle. I'd say I owe you quite a bit," she countered his reticence. "Let's get out and walk over to the temple; we can sit on the steps and talk."

The two walked just inside the gates and cut across an open field to the neo-classical tempietto that sat on a swell in the landscape. It was a beautiful afternoon and the sun warmed the spring air.

"Here milady, the ground's probably a little cold," Branson offered taking off his jacket and spreading it on the stone stair for her to sit down.

"Please join me," she gestured and he sat down. "So what's this big problem you have."

"Well its with my brother Tim…" he began to tell her taking off his hat and gloves. He looked down at his hands finding it difficult to know where to start. But he trusted her and he felt he needed to tell someone the entire story.

"He's named Tim? Tim and Tom. I'd imagine that must have tongue-tied your mother," she giggled in jest clearly trying to put him at ease.

"Milady it certainly did. Also didn't help that I was just a year older and we kind of favored each other as little ones. But soon he sprouted a bit taller and spread a bit wider than I did. So she could eventually tell us apart. Tim's a good man though. He works with my father and should be starting a family soon," he replied now feeling more relaxed about telling her the story.

"When I was in school I befriended a girl named Gemma. Even though I had to leave school we stayed friends—though we were worlds apart. She was Protestant and her father was the teacher I told you about and well, you know my story. My Ma was fond of her and I think secretly she thought the two of us would marry someday. But that'd never happen in Dublin, we'd 've had to leave home. We were friends more than anything, mates ya might say. In school with us was boy named Martin Donnelly. He told me once that things needed to stay separate and that I was causing an imbalance in the way God wanted the world to be because I was her friend. At the root of it all he hated me because she liked me better than him."

"He sounds like an awful bully," she offered.

"He grew up to be more than a bully. One day, we were all at least sixteen by then, he attacked her, he forced himself on her. She was too terrified to tell anyone, so she came to me. I tried to calm her but she was distraught, felt dirtied and that no one would ever want her. I told her not to worry, I'd take care her and everything. Needless to say I was furious at Donnelly and I sought him out. I wanted revenge, give him a good beatin', but my Pa had schooled us that fightin' never solves anything. So I told the police instead and he was arrested. Gemma was too shamed and ran off from her family and everyone. I've never seen nor heard from her again. And because she ran, there could be no trial and he was set free. I couldn't fathom how someone could deliberately crush, destroy such a beautiful delicate soul."

"That sounds terrifying and truly harrowing for your friend," she said quietly, then she asked "but how does this impact your brother?"

He stared off into the horizon, "Donnelly was a trouble maker alright. He soon became a thug for the bosses who wanted to break up unions and any hint of strikes. Since he knew everyone in the neighborhood he was the perfect informant. When Ma was organizing the women workers at the distillery she received several threats to stop. That crate that fell on her was no accident. We're all certain that Donnelly was behind it. He was seen talkin' to the head foreman just before it happened. But who were we to make accusations against him when he was clearly being paid by those with the power and law behind them? When I came home for her funeral I was enraged by what happened. I sought him out again. We got into a fight and this time I gave him that right beatin'. I almost killed the man, but stopped just short of taking his life."

"So your mother was murdered then," she said. "I'm so sorry."

"I couldn't believe what I was capable of doing. I saw the dark side of what men can become. So there and then I decided to leave Ireland for England. I needed to find stability, something meaningful after the tragedy of my mother's death. Like he crushed Gemma, Donnelly had once again destroyed someone I loved; if I had just taken care of him sooner, maybe my Ma would still be alive," he looked at her seeking some sort of solace in his confession.

"You did the best thing, you chose to come up here to Downton, rather than seek revenge. That says a lot about the kind of man you are," she tried to boost his spirits.

He felt relieved to tell someone this story. He didn't realize how far and how long he had been running from these demons. "I thought I had put all that in my past. But according to Tim, Donnelly came after him because he was supporting the transit workers union and well, because he was my brother. Tim was attacked one night by Donnelly and his gang and got beat pretty bad. Donnelly fell by accident and fatally hit his head, but Tim's gettin' the blame. He need's legal help and I thought Mr. Crawley might be able to help him—he's been stayin' at Mrs. Beechams for the week."

"I see, so you need me to help you with Cousin Matthew?"

"Yes, I thought it'd seem odd for me to just approach him."

"You were right. I can help. Let's see I'll send him a note and we can meet him at Crawley House. Can you give me a couple of days," she told him.

"Of course milady," he said and stood up, then offered his hand to help her up. She reached down for his jacket, folded it and carried it for him on their way back to the motorcar.

"I don't know how I can repay you," he breathed a sigh of relief as they walked across the field.

"Remember it is I who owe you for much more than you can imagine," she contended and looked reassuringly back at him.

* * *

><p>Three days later Branson drove Lady Sybil to the village. She had arranged tea with her cousin Matthew. She went into Crawley House first, while he went over to Mrs. Beecham's to fetch his brother. The Branson brothers waited patiently near the servant's entrance until Mr. Molesley arrived to take them into the sitting room.<p>

"Lady Sybil and Mr. Crawley thank you for meeting with us. This here is my brother Tim," Branson began.

"Tim please to meet you, your brother speaks well of you," Lady Sybil began.

"Please to meet you," Matthew welcomed them and offered his hand to Tim. Mr. Bates was right, Mr. Crawley was different and he was instantly relieved that Lady Sybil had helped to arrange this meeting. "Please, sit down. Now my cousin tells me you've gotten into tough spot. Can you recount the events of what happened?"

Branson relayed most of what had transpired including some of the preceding circumstances. Tim filled in details where necessary. Lady Sybil sat listening.

"I'm sorry to hear about your mother, that must have been a profound loss for your family," he offered. "I don't know if your brother has told you, but I grew up in Manchester so I know first hand these sorts of trouble between workers, bosses, and owners."

"Is there something you could do to help him?" Lady Sybil inquired.

"Sounds like an accident with that awful fellow and you've done no wrong. I suspect you just need someone to get you through the courts. Now, I have a university chum who specializes in labor case law, he's a real pioneer in the area. I know its not directly related to the strike but I think he could help you and also help you find a barrister in Dublin who can assist you. They've an alliance with unions to take on these types of cases, which are coming up more often now that workers are seeking their rights against the more powerful industrialists. And you might also get some justice for your mother's tragedy," Matthew said scribbling down information on a piece of paper and handed it to Tim. "Contact this man when you get to Manchester he'll help. I'll send word ahead."

"Mr. Crawley I'll go straight there, thank you sir," Tim said appreciatively as looked over the piece of paper.

"Thank you Mr. Crawley, please let me know what I owe you for your services," Branson joined in, gratified that Tim was getting much needed advice.

"No need, just glad I could be of assistance," Matthew replied.

Branson smiled gratefully at Lady Sybil. "I couldn't have asked for a better solution. If you don't mind my asking Mr. Crawley, you sound sympathetic to the cause of the workers?" he observed.

"You might be a bit surprised Branson, but I too think there's too much wealth in the hands of the few," Matthew said looking at Lady Sybil, who appeared rather astonished at her cousin's open declaration. "And I'm afraid that has got change or there's going to be more bloodshed."

"Indeed," Branson replied in agreement and thought he was remarkably fair-minded and that he will make a fine Lord Grantham. And by the way Matthew smiled at his cousin, he also wondered if Lady Sybil was the true object of his affection and not her sister.

"No need to call Molesley I'll show them out," Lady Sybil told her cousin. She led them from the sitting room and to the front door. "Tim your brother said your mother used to confuse both your names, I found that most amusing."

"Yes milady. But Ma soon realized Tom here was the sharp one and that he was goin' far. Happy to see that he's on his way," Tim revealed about Branson, who was slightly embarrassed by the compliment. "Thank ya for all of your help."

"I owe your brother here quite a bit. Just happy I could return the favor. Tim be safe and best of luck," she bid and held out her hand to shake his. Branson was surprised by the gesture of familiarity. The two brothers walked down the stair and out of the front gate.

"When I came all this way and showed up on your doorstep that night, I didn't expect help to come from your employers no less. Surprised the daughter of an Earl would be beholden to me brother. I'm impressed Tom Branson. They may be rich, but they must be good people."

"Well they're my employer's family and yes they are good people," he agreed. "Not everyone with money is callous and greedy, and as Donnelly proved not everyone who's poor is virtuous."

"Ah you were smarter than all of us to get that education. Just the same I 'preciate everything you've done."

"Here take this," Branson reached into his pocket and handed him some money. "It'll pay for a ticket to Manchester, then get you back to Dublin. Write when ya get back home and update me on what the solicitor in Manchester says. Give all my best to Pa and the girls," he hugged his brother and bid farewell.

* * *

><p>Branson took a deep breath of the fresh country air. He was relieved to have that resolved. He walked back to the Renault parked in front of Crawley house. There he waited for Lady Sybil and the Crawley's who were coming to Downton for dinner. Mr. Molesley came out with a message that Lady Sybil wanted to see him, she was around the back of the house in the garden.<p>

He found her standing amidst Mrs. Crawley's roses. Surrounded by the soft yellow, white and red hues, she looked refined, elegant in a way he hadn't noticed before. No longer the precocious girl he'd met a year ago, she really had blossomed into a woman, a rather beautiful one. He took off his hat and placed it under his arm as he approached.

"Milady, I…I don't know how to thank you and Mr. Crawley for comin' to Tim's aid."

"Matthew was eager to advise, he's very committed to his profession. I'm just glad I could help in some small way," she said moving from behind the flowers and toward him. "Branson, this may sound odd coming from me—Lord Grantham's daughter," she said earnestly. "But I just wanted you to know that I appreciate you trusting me enough to tell me all about your past. Your brother's visit seemed to dredge up a lot of painful memories about home, about your mother, your friend. I just want to help you heal in some way—if I can. Just know you have someone if you ever need anything again," she told him gazing into his eyes.

He didn't quite know what to say—her voice conveyed a sincerity that touched him at his core. It was an awkward conversation to have with his mistress, but then again they seemed to be constantly finding themselves in unconventional situations. He felt that she too found the protocols of social rank a chasm in want of closing.

"In truth, I'd never told anyone the whole story, its been buried so deep for so long. Your listening to it was more than enough." Then he felt compelled to say something that surprised even him. "You're young, yet in some ways very wise for your age—you're a remarkable woman," he said to her not as her servant, but with the conviction of a friend.

Neither spoke for the moment, but enjoyed the serenity of the garden and the golden glow of the late afternoon sun.


	9. Its Politics

_This chapter ballooned into a monster. You might say that it's an old dish with some fresh ingredients to add depth. Reviews and comments always keep the imagination vivid – thanks in advance. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 9 – Its Politics<p>

Lady Sybil stepped into the back of the motorcar. "Milady," Branson greeted her as he put the car in gear.

"Branson, you'll be excited for me. I'm canvasing for votes with the Suffrage Society this afternoon. Cousin Isobel is joining my group. We hope to enlist supporters for the Liberal candidate for MP."

"That sounds like a noble cause milady" he replied. But what he really wanted to know was had she informed her parents of her whereabouts. To be sure he just asked: "Did you at least tell her Ladyship?"

"Yes I followed your advice and told Mama. My father I hope will not find out, he's surely not going to be pleased. But he'll have to get used to women doing things differently around Downton."

"Indeed," he nodded.

"Although I think I've failed miserably to get Gwen a new job. She had that interview for a secretarial position last fall, but she didn't get it. Since then nothing has surfaced," she told him.

"Well you will have to keep trying milady. These things take time. Change takes time," he said reminding her to be patient.

"I sometimes think about your mother and what she was willing to do to help other women. It gives me hope," she told him.

He felt something heartening from the fact that Lady Sybil had taken a lesson from his mother's tragedy. "I'm glad it does. It helps me know that somethin' meaningful can come out of such a meaningless way for her to die," he replied.

"Have you heard anything more from your brother Tim?"

"Just one letter. He did meet the solicitor in Manchester Mr. Crawley recommended and that he was back in Dublin. But nothing more."

"Will you tell me what happens? " she inquired.

"Of course milady."

He pulled into Ripon and dropped her off near the center of town. He could see a group of about twenty women congregating near a large marble fountain; Mrs. Crawley was among them. As Lady Sybil walked away in her blue suit and matching straw hat, he noted that she looked more and more adult with each passing day. Branson admired her willingness to advocate forcefully for the cause of women's rights. And he was pleased that he had in some way contributed this young woman's enlightenment about the ways of the world.

* * *

><p>Lady Sybil asked him to meet her at the town hall around 5 o'clock. He thought it odd, but as soon as he pulled the motorcar out front he realized it was a political rally for the elections. This he immediately intuited was not the proper place for the daughter of an Earl—especially the one that employs him. Had she learned nothing from her mishap in Hyde Park last summer he wondered?<p>

The assembly was filled with both men and women, and therefore he guessed the Suffrage Society had sent representatives to rally for their cause. Sybil would be in their midst. As he wedged his way through the crowd he saw the back of her blue straw hat. He inquired if she was all right. With his speech championing a woman's right to vote, the speaker—the Liberal candidate—inflamed the already boisterous tenor of the gathering. A stone was lobbed at the orator. He ducked. This was going to get much worse.

"_If your so keen on women's rights then let a woman speak!"_ a suffragette voiced her plea.

"_Let's get the dog's up and listen to them dog's bark then!"_ yelled a man clearly not in tune with the cause.

It would be wise to leave now, but how to get his headstrong mistress to abide his suggestion, especially since she was so thrilled to be there? Thankfully Mrs. Crawley made her way over to voice precisely those sentiments. She placed particular emphasis on the likelihood that if something happened to her, he would lose his place at Downton. That fact seemed not to be lost on her. With people pushing and shoving at his back he cautioned her, "better safe than sorry milady."

He put his arm around her, cleared a path through the riled up crowd, and escorted her back to the car. But even with all the turmoil swirling around her, Lady Sybil's mind was still squarely focused on her cause "Women must get the right to vote, mustn't they Branson, why does the prime minister resist the inevitable?"

As he opened the door for her he responded with great wisdom, "Politicians can't often recognize the changes that are inevitable." He cranked the engine and sped off. He was pleased to have her away from that testy situation and to be driving her safely back home to Downton.

"I suppose you are right about change because I'm beginning to understand that to have power doesn't always mean you'll use it for the better does it?" she asked as they chugged along through town.

She was truly starting to comprehend the give and take between society and its forms of governance. And that it is the moral decisions of those in charge that weigh in the balance between tyranny and freedom. "No milady, not all those who have power use it for the good of the people. And its not just here, but look at what's brewin' between Germany and Russia—that's most certainly not going to end well. And then the Balkans are sure to erupt in some kind of war. I've a feeling milady, there's change comin' and not of the good sort I reckon," he told her soberly.

"So you're saying that there's going to massive change everywhere? That what women want here is also happening in other ways in other parts of the world? So then we _must_ get involved in politics, we _must _try to make politicians work for the good of the people," she said passionately.

"In a perfect world—yes."

"Well I hope you do go in to politics. It's a fine ambition."

He wasn't sure that was what wanted to do in the end. "Ambition or dream?" he wondered aloud about his prospects. Then he told her that if he did it wasn't just about the vote or freedom for Ireland, but what really concerned him was the gap between the aristocracy and the poor—a reality that clearly undergirded their relationship, so he paused unsure of whether to tell her the rest.

"And what?" she perked up.

"Sorry," he apologized, "I don't mean to speak against his Lordship."

"So you obviously don't approve of him?" she challenged.

He also knew that by now he could be candid with her: "Not as a representative of an oppressive class. But," he added forcefully, "he's a good man and a decent employer," a statement that was in earnest and truthful. He did admire how Lord Grantham ran his estate and handled his employees with compassion and fairness. It was his best position thus far. He certainly had no complaints about his treatment or that of others.

"Spoken like a true politician," Sybil laughed at his diplomacy.

He turned to smile back at her. She was beginning to know him quite well. Then she wondered about her state of appearance after being within such an unruly crowd. In his mind she looked as always—lovely, even with her hair in a damp mess and her stocking torn as he recalled that eventful afternoon in his cottage. She requested to drop her off around the back of the house. And they both entered through the servant's entrance.

"Thank you Branson," she said warmly as they walked through the corridor.

"You're welcome milady," he replied as he stopped at the butler's pantry to confirm this evening's schedule of trips.

* * *

><p>Branson returned to the servant's hall later that evening while he waited to take the Dowager Countess back home after dinner. He joined Mr. Bates reading the newspaper at the table.<p>

"Good evening Tom," Bates greeted him.

"John," he nodded. "Things are gettin' riled up everywhere in the world it seems. It's like these leaders are playing chess but with real people," he observed staring at the headline in the newspaper on Austria's latest demands.

"Indeed. War is coming I suspect. I've can feel the winds of change."

"And those winds are starting to howl," Branson added introspectively.

"Sounds like it was quite a rally today in Ripon?" Bates looked up from the paper to ask his friend.

"And Lady Sybil of course was right in the middle of it," he said exasperated. "Keepin' her in line is like herding cats I tell ya," he confessed.

"She's spirited that one," Bates shook his head in sympathy.

"And a mess o' trouble. You have no idea. I told her she'd better inform her mother of her plans, but she listens to no one. I'm pretty sure Lord Grantham had no clue," Branson revealed.

"He didn't until I mistakenly said something," Bates confessed.

Branson looked wide-eyed, "Tell me ya didn't?" Her father was not going to be pleased. He was sure Lady Sybil wasn't going to be heading off to the Suffrage Society or anywhere beyond Downton's gates anytime soon, except maybe to the village for Sunday service.

Anna walked in and gave them an update that Lady Grantham had been berated in front of everyone at dinner for letting Lady Sybil go to Ripon to canvas for votes and attend that rally, which had been now been upgraded to a full out riot.

"I'm sorry I started all this," Bates offered nobly taking the blame for what were really Lady Sybil's actions.

"Oh its not your fault," Branson added knowing that he was the one who had played a critical role in their youngest daughter's political awakening. "Anyways, he should be happy to have a daughter who cares."

Thomas walked in to inform him that the Dowager Countess was ready to leave. As he got up he heard Thomas—an attack in ongoing war downstairs—scolding Mr. Bates about his slipup to Lord Grantham. Every action by someone upstairs or downstairs, Branson fathomed, resonated enough force to cause an exponential number of related actions throughout the household. This was also happening in the world outside of Downton.

* * *

><p>He pulled the Renault in front of the house and waited for the Dowager Countess. Thomas helped her into the back seat.<p>

"Good evening Branson. I hear you took my granddaughter on quite an adventure this afternoon?" the Dowager Countess began as he turned the car around in the drive.

"Your Ladyship. Yes Lady Sybil did attend a rally in Ripon," he replied respectfully.

"What's all this brewing about women being able to cast a vote? We should do what our husband's tell us. That is how it has always been done."

"If you don't mind my sayin' your Ladyship, but I think women are just as smart as us men. In many ways you're even smarter. I believe you'd do a much better job running things—don't you think?"

"Hmm, for a chauffeur you certainly have some extreme notions," she said then paused to think about his statement. "But I have to admit—we women do do a better job at running everything. I used to tell my late husband Patrick that he must be more frugal and thoughtful with his expenditures. Did he listen? Of course he did not. Because he failed to heed my sage advice, our son ended up marrying an American to replenish the estate. And there you have it—this is why my granddaughter is so high-spirited, it's her bad American blood I tell you!" the Dowager Countess alleged.

"Oh I doubt it comes from just her American side your Ladyship," Branson replied keenly aware of how much Lady Sybil had inherited from her temperamental, highly opinionated grandmother.

"What ever do you mean?" she asked as he pulled in front of the Dowager House. He opened the door and helped her out of the vehicle. "You have some interesting ideas young man. I certainly don't agree with them all, but they are compelling nonetheless. Good evening Branson and please keep my granddaughter out of harms way if you can," she requested as her butler helped the feisty woman up the stairs and into the house.

"Yes, your Ladyship, I'll certainly try," he bowed—another task of Sisyphus. On his way back he thought that perhaps even she too could be swayed to the cause.

* * *

><p>About a week later, Branson received his list of trips for the day from Mr. Carson. He was surprised to see that he was to take Lady Sybil to Ripon. He wondered how she had manipulated her father to wrangle that trip. She was certainly most skillful at getting her way.<p>

On their journey to Ripon, Lady Sybil asked a lot of questions about the different political parties and their various positions. What was the difference between Liberal and Labour on women's rights, Socialist and Liberal on the plight of the poor and working classes, and why do the Tories always seem to win in this region? He tried to answer best he could assuming she was going to the Suffrage Society for a meeting about the elections and their likely outcome.

However, when they arrived in Ripon she insisted that he pull up in front of the town hall. He wanted to know if her meeting was nearby. This was the meeting she stated. "We're here for the counting of the votes," she informed him. And she swiftly hopped out before he could even help her or say in a word.

At first he didn't quite understand. But he soon realized that she had misled not only her father, but also him.

"Don't be silly Branson. You don't think I'd miss my very first bye-election." He tried to reign her in by saying her father clearly wouldn't approve. But she wouldn't listen, "Let me worry about him," she insisted.

He could tell by the dress and demeanor of those filing into the courtyard that this was going to be a rowdy count. So he tried one more time to dissuade her, at least wait to let him escort her inside. He yelled "I have to park the car, don't move! Stay where you are!"

But she turned around and told him with most impetuous look on her face: "Really Branson I thought I gave the orders!"

Horns were blaring so he needed to move along. But he absolutely had to get back to her side as quickly as possible. Lady Sybil was cavalierly walking into major trouble. She may be looking like an adult in her pinstriped jacket and skirt, but she still had the common sense of a child at times. "That girl is sure to get me sacked!" he grumbled.

By the time he returned, the count was already being recited. The courtyard was filled of constituents of all stripes. And shouts of "Votes for Women" could be heard over the din. He had to push his way through the throngs to get to her as she stood near a group of her compatriots. This one he could tell already was going to end in unrest. He had to get her out of there. "Shall we call it a day milady," was his first attempt to prompt her to leave.

"Don't be silly," she replied still not budging, "this was the moment we've come for."

He told her these people aren't interested in politics, but that they were more interested in a fight. She still didn't realize the danger she was in. He looked around trying to shield her and grabbed her by the arm preparing to drag her out when Mr. Crawley thankfully arrived. He too wanted to know what the devil she was doing there.

While Matthew tried to reason with Sybil, Branson noticed a group of drunken rabble-rousers had infiltrated the crowd. He tried to persuade the group by telling one of them that he was on their side. But they shoved him aside and constrained him from stopping them. The leader of the pack sought out anyone who looked like a Tory. Mr. Crawley in his black bowler was an easy target. They exchanged words. The man took a swing at Matthew who pushed back to defend himself. In an instant Lady Sybil was caught up in the erupting chaos. She fell back and hit her head on the side of a table. Her body lay motionless on the cobblestones.

Branson and Matthew both dropped to their knees by her side. He put his hand on her waist and felt that she was still breathing. Matthew put his hand on the side of her head and withdrew it—his palm was covered in blood.

"Oh no. Please God no," Branson desperately pleaded—another woman in his life can't be harmed by needless violence yet again. He immediately slid his arms under her, lifted her up, and carried her limp body out of the crowd to the car. Matthew opened the door and helped her onto the seat. Both men knew they couldn't take her back to Downton in this state. Matthew suggested to Branson that he take her to Crawley house, his mother could certainly help.

* * *

><p>Branson drove as quickly as he could. He turned around periodically checking to see if she had regained consciousness, but she had not. Matthew held a handkerchief to her head to stop the bleeding. Once arrived, Branson carried a still unresponsive Lady Sybil into Crawley House. Mrs. Crawley immediately took charge and directed him to lay her down on the couch in the sitting room, while she and Matthew went to get some bandages, hot water, and other supplies. As he rose, he caressed the side of her face. She looked so peaceful, not in pain—at least not yet. When Matthew came back in he asked him to discreetly retrieve Lady Mary from Downton, someone in the family needed to know right away.<p>

He swiftly brought Lady Mary to Crawley House. But he said little of the circumstances other than they had both been at the count in Ripon. Lady Sybil was already in deep trouble and he did not want to add to it. He waited in the kitchen with Mr. Moseley and Mrs. Bird, who generously gave him a plate of food, however he was too distraught to eat anything. Eventually Matthew came into the kitchen to tell them Lady Sybil was conscious and that they could take her back home. As he waited in the motorcar, he could see that she was at least able to walk.

He pulled the car in front of Downton. Matthew with his arms caringly around Lady Sybil guided her into the house. If she were going to marry one of her class, at least he knew Matthew was a decent man. He wanted to know about her condition, so he asked Lady Mary before she went inside if she badly was hurt?

"No I don't think so," she informed him. Lady Mary looked drained.

"Thank god," he felt relieved and looked down. Seeing her lying prostrate on the ground was as if all the air had been drawn out of his lungs and he couldn't breathe.

"But you'd better be prepared," she warned that Lord Grantham was going to be ferociously angry.

"I never would have taken her there," he said contritely "I'm a socialist not a lunatic."

"I'm not sure Papa knows the difference," she said honestly.

He needed to know that Lady Sybil was going to be fine. He felt responsible for her. "Will you let me know how she gets on…please?"

Lady Mary was somewhat surprised by his depth of concern, "if you wish" she offered kindly.

He turned back to the car. He stood motionless. He was still numb from the fear that had gripped his heart. His mind was swirling with emotions some of which he couldn't quite understand. But he was most thankful that Lady Sybil was not seriously injured.

* * *

><p>That night Branson lie awake, his hands cradling his head, staring at the ray of moonlight as it swept across the rough white wall. His mind raced over the details of the day:<p>

_He should have never stopped and allowed her to leave the vehicle—if only he had been swifter in his actions.  
>Why didn't he just grab her and spirit her away against her will?<br>Why did he let her stay knowing full well the dangers and her inexperience?  
>Why didn't he see all of this coming—she had already disobeyed her parent's wishes on several occasions?<br>And of course he had been the one to encourage her to engage her curiosity about politics and women's rights.  
>Had he been wrong to do this?<br>Was it worth the outcome?  
>He pictured again her inert body lying on the ground.<br>He recalled its lightness as he carried her out of the courtyard.  
>Their closeness reminded him of holding Gemma in his arms the day she told him of the rape.<br>Gemma shivered with fear and she let him comfort her.  
>He vowed then he would never allow a woman he cared for to be in danger.<br>He would never allow a woman he cared for to be hurt by violence.  
>Did he care for her?<br>If so in what way?  
>As her servant?<br>Her friend?  
>Or was she something else?<em>

He was awakened by a knock at the door. It was Daisy with his breakfast. He'd barely slept.

She handed over the basket and relayed: "Good morning Mr. Branson, Mr. Carson wants you ta see him right away after ya finish breakfast."

"Thanks Daisy," he could barely muster. He brought the basket inside, but he was not hungry. He still had a knot in his stomach about yesterday's fateful events. He took a bite of bread to hold him over and poured a cup of water. He dressed, then drove up to the main house.

He met Mr. Carson in his office. Mrs. Hughes was also in attendance. This did not bode well.

"Mr. Branson it would seem there were events that occurred yesterday involving you and Lady Sybil. I have also been made privy to other allegations about improper behavior between you and Lady Sybil that need to be clarified immediately," he asserted.

Branson had expected a dressing down because of the yesterday's debacle in Ripon, but he was completely taken aback by these new allegations—what were they and who had made them? Mr. Carson went to the door and invited in his accusers: Miss O'Brien and Big Jim.

"Now according to Miss O'Brien you were seen walking from the Temple in Lady Sybil's company and she was carrying your chauffeur's jacket?" Mr. Carson stated. "Is that correct Miss O'Brien?"

"It's what I saw on my way from the village."

"Now Jim here says that you were also seen in the forest walking with Lady Sybil. That you and she exchanged secret notes on a regular basis. And this is what is perhaps the most troubling accusation of all: she was seen sneaking out your lodgings one afternoon." Mr. Carson finished with his list.

Big Jim leered his way and said, "I seen 'em with my own two eyes. I swear it."

"Well Mr. Branson what have you to say for yourself in regards to these matters?" Mr. Carson asked for a defense.

He took a deep breath. "Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes I can assure you that nothing untoward has happened between myself and Lady Sybil," which was true, he had tried to always maintain a professional distance, even when she had insisted otherwise. "As to the first accusation from Miss O'Brien. She did see me and Lady Sybil coming from the Temple on that afternoon. Lady Sybil was helping me with a problem that I'd rather not discuss in front of these two. She insisted that we find somewhere that we could talk about it. I took off my jacket so that she would not have to sit on the cold stone stair. She carried if for me as I escorted back to the vehicle." He hoped this would suffice for the first explanation. "As for the other accusations. Yes I did walk with Lady Sybil into the woods, but again it was at her invitation. She needed clarification about somethin' and thought I could supply her with the answer. I complied with her request. She also wanted to know more about women's causes, so I agreed to share some of my books and pamphlets with her. I would leave them in the box in front of the cottage for her to pick up on her walks. Now, as for the last and most serious allegation: Lady Sybil had hurt her foot trying to escape a sudden downpour. She was cold and soaked. She would have caught her death of cold in that dank garage. So I let her into my cottage to tend to her foot. I also built a fire to warm her and gave her some tea. I was merely providin' aid to my injured mistress—I saw no harm in that. As soon as the rain let up I drove her to the house where you met us in the hallway Mr. Carson."

"Yes, I recall that incident," the butler raised his eyebrows remembering that afternoon. He took in Branson's account of these events "Hmm, well this certainly seems like an adequate explanation. You have delivered exceptional service thus far in your duties. I have heard no complaints other than these what I will now call 'observations.' However I expect you to maintain a proper distance from all those we serve and remember the rules of conduct in the future. I will not be reporting these 'observations' to his Lordship. They have plenty to worry about upstairs."

"Thank you Mr. Carson," Branson said, relieved he would keep his position. He saw the disappointment creep across the faces of Miss O'Brien and Big Jim.

"You two may go," Mr. Carson dismissed his accusers. "Is there anything else you wish to tell us Mr. Branson?"

He thought it might be wise to tell them about Tim. "The problem I spoke with Lady Sybil about was concerning my brother Tim. He showed up here unexpectedly one night a few weeks ago. I sent him on his way immediately, but he was in a bit of a scrape back home. Lady Sybil helped me with Mr. Crawley who in turn recommended legal help. The matter is being taken care of. I just thought you two should know. I apologize for not telling you sooner."

"Well now, you should have come to us first," Mrs. Hughes suggested. "We're not ogres Mr. Branson. We're here to help. Why did you chose Lady Sybil then?"

"I don't know she just seemed…well available. And she was eager and happy to assist Tim."

"But we should not trouble those we serve with our problems Mr. Branson. You should know this after several years in service. Please make sure it does not happen again," Mr. Carson sternly reprimanded him and handed him a list of his duties.

"Yes sir. Thank you." And he turned and exited the room. He was pleased to dodge that bullet, although he saw nothing improper about him approaching Lady Sybil. Perhaps attitudes were changing toward class difference, but it would the younger generation who initiate it.

As he walked toward the door Anna stopped him and relayed a message: "Lady Mary wants you to know that her sister is no worse for the wear and doin' just fine. And Lady Sybil asked me to give you this," and she handed over a small envelop.

"Thanks Anna," he smiled, ecstatic that she was going to recover. He even felt his stomach grumble at last.

* * *

><p>Branson went about his duties for the rest of the day. And when he returned in the early evening he drove by one of the outbuildings and saw Big Jim inside. He parked the car in the garage and walked over to find out why the groundskeeper tried to get him sacked. He'd let Bates deal with O'Brien, but he was going to deal with Big Jim.<p>

"So, I guess you may not have much to say to me, but it seems you had a lot to say to Mr. Carson. What've I ever done to you?" Branson asked the big man as he stood in the doorway.

"Ya come up here and immediately start makin' friends with ya betters. Which means ya think you're better'n rest of us 'round here. I always thought someone from the village shoulda got that job, not an Irishman," Big Jim came toward him with a large pole in his hand clearly trying to intimidate him. Both men stepped outside.

"Well I'm just gettin' on with my duties. Not trying to cause any trouble for you or anyone else," Branson asserted.

"Trouble? And your brother showin' up here wasn't trouble? Heard he was hangin' around the village lookin' for work. Sure enough where there's one of your kind more will follow. And before we'd know it we're overrun by the Irish—I'm makin sure that doesn't happen 'round here," Big Jim bellowed as he took the pole and held in both hands in front of him as if he would raise it to thrust at Branson.

"It wouldn't be wise to try to hit me," Branson advised.

But Big Jim didn't heed that warning and pulled both his hands up trying to shove him back with the pole. Branson quickly grabbed the pole with his two hands. And the two men wrestled back and forth. He was smaller in comparison to the hulking groundskeeper. but he was also younger and swifter. He made a quick jerking action and wrested the pole away from Jim. He took one end behind Jim's foot and tripped the big brute, who then fell on his back with a loud "THUD" onto the ground. Branson dropped on top of him with the pole pressuring his throat. Big Jim started to gurgle and choke, "stop it … alright stop it..." Branson relaxed and stood up. He tossed the pole aside.

Branson hovered over the fallen giant as he tried to sit upright. He notified Big Jim: "I'm not going anywhere. So get used to it," he began. He needed to show that he had bargaining chips in this battle of wills, so he added, "and if you spy on me again I'll just have to tell Mr. Carson why his Lordship may not have as many pheasants as he is supposed to on his estate."

Big Jim said nothing while he rubbed his throat. Branson walked away. He was pleased that he had taken care of that with minimum use of brawn. He was truly weary of all the hostility.

He went into his cottage and plopped down in a chair. He was exhausted from the day before, so little sleep last night, the inquisition in morning with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, his day shift, and now his tense early evening negotiations with Big Jim. As he took off his jacket, he felt the stiffness of Lady Sybil's letter, and pulled it out of his pocket. He opened it:

_Dear Tom,  
>I hope you don't mind the familiarity in my address, but I feel we've been through quite a few adventures together these past months. I am writing you this quick note to offer you an apology. I needed to tell you that I am truly sorry that my bad judgment dragged you into this predicament yesterday that was entirely my fault. You tried to warn me on several occasions that I could be in danger.<em>_ As you can now tell I rarely listen when I should.__ I'm a little stubborn sometimes, well most times. I'm sorry if you've gotten into any trouble downstairs, I'll try to smooth things with Mr. Carson. But I think you would be proud of me. Last night I stood up to my father who refused to believe me that this entire fiasco was completely my responsibility. He did threaten to fire you, but I told him I would run off if he did so. I held my ground and stood up for what I believed was right. So you see, your lessons haven't been totally lost on me. In fact I can't tell you how much I've learned about the world from you, for that I am thankful. My head still really hurts and Mama is insisting I stay in bed all day, but its lovely outside and I just want to go for a long walk. Perhaps run into you by the brook so that we could talk about the election results and other things on your mind. Cousin Matthew said you carried me out of the rally. I may have been unconscious, but I felt utterly safe. Thank you yet again for helping me out of a tough spot. I suppose this has become a habit.  
>I am yours sincerely,<br>Sybil Crawley_

He loosened his tie, he reread it several times; it was a very personal letter. Were Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes right had he crossed a threshold of impropriety? He couldn't know. He didn't care. All he wanted was to flee the turmoil—both outside and inside.


	10. Reunion

_Filling in an annoying gap in the original storyline. WARNING: its summer so the opening gets rather steamy, may not be for everyone. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 10 – Reunion<p>

_Day was breaking…patches of fog crept across the verdant swathe of lawn that stretched from the foot of Downton Abbey…in the distance he could barely see the outline of the temple…a woman's voice summoned him to join her there…wearing only a shirt and trousers he slowly walked toward it and her…his feet grew wet as the blades of grass slid through his toes…he could hear her lyrical voice become more audible with each step…"Tom," she whispered…he came closer and the round temple gradually appeared out of the grey haze…he halted...he breathed in the crisp air…he heard his name again "Tom," but saw no one…until out of the mist he could grasp the figure of a woman slowly emerging from the Doric colonnade…she wore a long white diaphanous gown that fluttered in the gentle breeze…she walked barefoot down the stone stairs…he could not discern her face, he only heard her call…"Tom," she gently beckoned…she came closer and he could see the sensuous curves of her body through the sheer fabric of her shift…her breasts were round and voluptuous…a wisp of fabric shrouded her face…she held out her arms…opening them wide, she gestured him to come to her…he stepped willingly into her embrace…his body met hers…they were fully unclothed…his arms slid around her waist…her breasts pressed against his chest…her skin felt dewy…her hair was soft against his cheek as its curls cascaded down her back…she smelled of grass and orange blossoms…"Tom," she whispered in his ear…his hands caressed the gentle curve of her damp back...her supple lips lightly grazed his shoulder…he'd never felt anything so blissful…so pleasurable…his head fell back in ecstasy…he looked down and her face came into view…Sybil…_

"Sybil!" he gasped as he sat up arrested from his sleep by the vivid dream. He was in his cottage. It was still night. And he was now fully aroused. _You're having an erotic dream about your mistress,_ he thought. _Get ahold of yourself Tom Branson. _He took in a deep breath, then lay down again to finish the pleasure the dream had begun.

* * *

><p>Branson arrived in London in the late afternoon. He had driven Lord and Lady Grantham, and the Dowager Countess from Downton to Grantham House this warm July day. Because they were eager to join in the festivities of the new season, the Crawley daughters had taken a train earlier in the week. It was his second London season for the family, so at least he was now accustomed to the city routines.<p>

Downstairs was abuzz that this year Lady Sybil would be making her social debut. He tried to ignore the chatter of the maids in both households because he had heard (and dreamed) enough about the Earl's youngest daughter. He was determined to avoid being alone with her for the entire month they were to spend here. In the aftermath of the Ripon brawl, they had seen little of one another and it was always in the company of others. Lord Grantham had wisely enlisted Mr. Carson and the staff to keep a watchful eye on his wayward daughter. And for a change she was obedient as he suspected she was not going to jeopardize her debut at court. Anyway, he was fine with keeping some distance from what in his mind had become a vexing problem of his very confused heart.

His schedule was busy when in town, mostly with driving the family to dinner parties in the evenings. He would bring the car around the front of Grantham House these nights. Dressed in their finest evening attire, Lord and Lady Grantham, and two or all of the daughters would climb inside. On occasion the Dowager Countess in full regalia would join them. The Crawley daughters were always giddy and filled with speculation on which eligible escort they would meet that evening. He would drop the family off at some stately terrace house that sat on one of the city's elegant squares. While the family dined, he would either wait patiently out front with the motorcar or sometimes the kitchen staff of the hosting family would invite him inside for tea or a meal. Typically after midnight, he would drive them all back to Grantham House.

Sometimes while he waited outside for the family, he would watch the other guests arrive. Heading into the parties would always be twosomes of young men dressed in elegant black evening clothes, tall silk hats, and carrying gold knobbed canes. No doubt future Viscounts and Earls, perhaps even a Duke, seeking a wife. He wondered which one these haughty aristocrats would catch Lady Sybil's fancy. In the tall windows of these grand houses he could on occasion see the silhouettes of gentlemen talking to ladies. Lady Sybil was stunningly attired he observed when he caught a glimpse of her in one of her flowing evening gowns. She sparkled and men would certainly alight to her like a moth to a flame. He only hoped that when the marriage contracts were signed that she would find a husband who was deserving of her kindness, respected her intelligence, and loved her deeply.

* * *

><p>"Tom, ya seem a bit agitated, if you don't mind my saying," Mr. Bates observed one morning of his friend, colleague, and temporary roommate. "At night you're tossin' and turnin' like a side of mutton on a spit. No more problems with your brother?"<p>

"No I haven't heard anything more from Tim, that situation does have me worried still. But thanks for askin'," Branson rubbed his face as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Don't know what it is, just feeling restless I suppose. You might say things aren't where they ought to be," he replied elliptically not wanting to talk about what was really on his mind or troubling his heart.

"Since we're both off tomorrow afternoon, how about we go over to Masons for a fine Sunday meal. You can have a pint and we can talk about what's been eating at you?"

Branson took a moment to consider his offer. "Yes, I could use that. Thank you," he agreed thinking this might be a good idea.

He did need to talk to someone, and he implicitly trusted Bates and his sterling good judgment—it had certainly helped Tim. Given the way Bates and Anna kept exchanging furtive glances around the halls and stairwells of Downton, he suspected his friend the valet might have some romantic concerns of his own that may be equally as complicated. In light of that fact, he might be able offer some advice on what was causing all the turmoil and what to do about it. Or at the very least the two men could commiserate.

The next day arrived and they walked over to the Mason Arms. The rotund proprietress looked much the same as last summer and instantly welcomed her not-so regular patron Mr. Bates.

"Mr. Bates, welcome home. How's life up there in wilds of Yorkshire?" Mrs. Hall greeted him at the door.

"Ah Mrs. Hall good to see you again, its not as wild as ya think up there, and its been a long time since London's been my home," he replied warmly as she showed them to a table near the window.

"And who's ya friend here Mr. Bates," Mrs. Hall inquired wanting to know who was entering her establishment.

"This is Mr. Branson," he told her.

"Tom. Please to meet you Mrs. Hall," he greeted her, hoping she would not remember him from last summer.

But alas she had excellent recall, and clearly kept track of who came in and out of her dining room. "Mr. Branson, you look awfully familiar. Huh…you've been here? I remember now with a fetching dark haired lass you were. Ya shoulda seen them Mr. Bates, their cheeks turned bright red when I asked them if they were a couple–so sweet I tell ya! How's that girl of yours?"

"Mrs. Hall…well…I'm not" he once again choked up. "She's not my girl," he explained with a hint of regret in his voice.

"Well too bad ya let that one get away, someone else's a lucky fella. Now what'll you two gentleman be havin'?" she asked her guests.

Once they ordered their meal, the conversation immediately turned toward the issue at hand.

"Brought a girl here did you? Might that be what's bothering you now that you're back in London?"

"I rescued a friend last summer who'd gotten into a bit of a tough spot, that's all," he began to explain. Then he took a deep breath, looked up, and confessed, "But John, she is the trouble, if you want to call her that."

Mrs. Hall brought Branson a pint and Mr. Bates a cup of coffee.

"So it is a matter of the heart then?" Bates wondered about his friend.

"Indeed. A very confused one," he took a sip of ale to get up his courage to explain what was clearly a delicate situation. "I feel frozen, I feel trapped in my own uncertainty. I'm unable to move forward. I like her. I think about her…well a lot. I've never met a woman quite like her."

"That sounds promising. Maybe you need to be more forceful. Not so afraid. Sounds like she lives here then, take her to a picture show why don't you? What's the problem?"

"Truth is I could never take her to those places. We could never be together in any way. It's just not possible for many obvious reasons if you knew her. Her entire world would collapse and she'd be cast out," he sketched for Bates "the why" without telling him "the who."

"Well that's truly unfortunate for you my friend," Bates sympathized, too respectful of Branson's privacy to pry any further.

"But the thing is I can't stop thinkin' about her. She's everywhere I turn. Its like," he had to think about how to phrase it, "it's like she's gotten into my blood," he admitted staring down at his pint of ale.

"Well then that is bad," Bates said, he held up his cup took a sip of coffee and looked off into the distance while he thought it over. Branson said nothing, just twisted around his pint glass. Then Bates piped up, "What ya need is a cure for that. And I think the cure's to find someone else. Someone to take your mind off the other one, the one you can't have."

"You think so?" Branson asked mulling over this seemingly logical suggestion.

"I know so. I've been in that situation myself. And it helps to find someone else. Someone who's less 'trouble' shall we say."

"You mean someone like Anna for instance?" he redirected the conversation onto Bates' own personal travails.

"I'm not the one who's trying to mend what sounds like a broken heart."

"Oh aren't you?" he reminded Bates, who smiled back at his friend's very astute observation of his own tortured affairs of the heart.

Just then Mrs. Hall brought over their plates piled high with steaming slices of roast lamb and potatoes—much to Mr. Bates relief. "Tom there's no need to worry about me, now eat ya potatoes why don't' you," his friend directed as he picked up his fork. And the two men commenced to have a hearty laugh and hearty meal. The rest of their discussion drifted onto politics and the storm brewing between Austria-Hungary, France, Russia, the German Reich, and Britain.

* * *

><p>After Mrs. Hall's filling dinner, not quite on par with Mrs. Patmore's fine cuisine, but close, he and Bates parted ways. Branson was grateful for his friend's advice. And to think through what they had discussed, he decided to take a long walk on the lovely summer evening. Meandering through the city's streets and lanes was always a good way to sift through ideas, problems, and aspirations.<p>

As he wandered amidst the early evening crowds, Branson pondered where his life was heading. Marriage had not been something that was foremost on his agenda of what to pursue. His first job away from home had been at seventeen and he had worked diligently in service for ten years now. While a young man, his mind had been focused on books and from those he started to piece together in his head a puzzle of how the world should be. He still did not have all the pieces just yet to know exactly how that was going to happen or what he should do. But he felt these diverse experiences were providing him with that knowledge.

His mother, of course, hoped all of her boys would marry fine local girls. And that as a contented couple they would grow old and fat together in a house filled children—as she had planned to do with his father. But she was a very wise woman and also wanted each to find happiness with whomever they married. Gemma, even with their religious differences, from his mother's perspective made him happy. That he realized once his mother was gone was her most cherished wish. He regretted she would never know that special woman or their children. But he was also sure that one reason why he hadn't married yet like his brother Kevin, who wed Kate when he was 18, or Tim, who certainly had his favorites, was that he didn't believe that wives should be subordinate to their husbands. He wanted to find a woman who had her own mind, her own passions—and he knew that such a woman would be a rare find.

Lamplighters climbed up the poles to illuminate the streetlights along the Strand as he walked deeply lost in thought. He of course needed female companionship from time to time. He'd been intimate with women before: a girl in the neighborhood, one of the housemaids from a nearby estate when he worked for Mrs. Ennis, and there had been others. So he knew his desires, as well as how to please a woman, which most men around him thought unimportant. Over the years, there had been women in is life, but none whom he could actually go through with marrying.

Much to his surprise, his yearlong retreat to Yorkshire had brought another dimension to his life – he had fallen in love. He didn't plan it, he still couldn't pinpoint exactly when it happened—it had kind of gradually crept up on him. The vivid dreams were certainly an indicator of the depth of his desire for her. But falling in love with his employer's daughter, an aristocrat no less, was not in the offing. There was no point in pursuing anything more than their mistress and servant relationship. He knew deep inside that it would be impossible to conquer the chasm between their two worlds. He was not naïve to believe that love would conquer all. The world was far more complicated and ruthless than that. But Bates was right, what he needed to do was find a distraction, someone to take his mind off Sybil. And he had an inkling of who that "someone else" might be—Millie, a maid in Lord Peckham's household.

By now it was just about twilight and it being Sunday the music halls were shuttered, so the evening theater crowds were absent from the sidewalks. Although men still lingered in the nearby public houses and taverns. And the prostitutes still discretely plied their trade from the alleys and lanes. Assembled in groups of two or three, these women donning silk dresses and jewels, albeit fake ones, might be mistaken for "ladies," except for their absence of escorts. Their current plight, he thought sympathetically as he walked by them, was another fallout from the imbalance of wealth in society, and the imbalance of power between men and women.

"_Need somethin' mister,"_ one offered his way.

"'_e's a looker that one, lookin' for me are ya?" _ another woman inquired.

"_Ay mister,"_ yelled a voice from the group of three. Her call stopped him dead in his tracks. He turned to see who had summoned him.

"Who said that?" he inquired.

"What ya lookin' for mister?" she asked again.

"Gemma, is that you?" he was sure he recognized the voice and scrutinized the woman who spoke to him.

"Tom? Nah, that can't be you?" Gemma walked toward him into the yellow light of streetlamps. And from her face, even with age and makeup, he knew it was she. He had not seen nor heard from her for ten years.

"You're alive!" he gleefully said and instinctively drew her into his embrace. "I can't believe it's really you." His heart was simultaneously alive with great joy and weighed down with deep sorrow given where he found her.

"Tom, Tom Branson, it's so good to see a face from home," she said through the tears that now welled up in her eyes.

He looked around, they could not talk here, "come with me. Don't worry," he assured. He grasped Gemma's hand and led her away. She came willingly, which meant that she still trusted him.

Nearby he found a tavern and the old friends sat down together. "Gemma love!" yelled the bartender. He realized this was one of her haunts.

"Bring him a pint and me a glass o' my usual," she requested. "Men are always happy to buy champagne for me, sometimes its on the house, plus I like the way it tickles me throat," she explained. She still had that glow about her he observed in the electric light of the tavern. Her fine light hair was now put up in curls with bright red bows and her hazel eyes still had a beauty about them, but the spark he fondly recalled had now vanished.

They had ten years to fill in. He started first and told her about his life thus far, how he ended up in North Yorkshire, and why he was in London for the month. "They sound like good decent people ya work for. You were always the smart one, my Pa could tell. That's why he wanted you to continue with your schoolin' even if ya had to work. I'm proud of ya," she warmly complimented raising her glass of champagne to toast him.

Then it was her turn. He found out that she had fled to Liverpool, then made her way to London. She first had success finding work in service. But she was soon dismissed from her first position as a housemaid due to a master who thought making his bed also meant she should join him in it. He sacked her and couldn't get a reference, which made it difficult to move elsewhere without it. She then tried to secure factory work and piece-work, but times were hard and these jobs went to locals, not an Irishwoman far from home. Hungry, destitute with no one to turn to, she eventually found work selling her sexual services.

Branson told her she should have sent word to him. Gemma tried to assure him it was not as bad or evil as they make it out to be. And she informed him that she was a "better class o' streetwalker" because she worked the music halls and theaters. "I get the real gentlemen," she told him of her well-heeled clientele. He paid for the drinks and they walked outside into the summer night. He wanted to escort her home, but instead she insisted he could walk her not far the tavern.

As they strolled along the Strand, Gemma wanted to know about his family. He told her that his Pa, brothers, and sisters were all fine. Next he informed her that his mother had died last year. She was truly sorry about that, she was very fond of his Ma.

Branson stopped, turned toward Gemma then gave her the news: "Donnelly's dead." He explained what had happened between his mother's murder and Tim's fight.

Gemma turned white as a sheet and began to visibly shake. "He made me hate myself," she cried shaking her head from side to side.

Branson held her hands, "Gemma look at me, look at me," he demanded, "he's dead. He can't hurt you anymore." And he took her into his arms to calm what had now become a torrent of tears, just like he had done some ten years before. He softly kissed her forehead and rocked gently until she stopped crying. In many ways he now understood, she _had_ been his first love.

He tilted her head up and wiped her tears with his fingers. "Gemma," he began, "I know where to find you now, let me help you. Please."

"Tom, I'm a ghost. You haven't seen me, the innocent girl you knew disappeared that May afternoon," she said. "She's long gone."

"Will you promise me this: if I can find some work for you besides this, you'll at least consider it—for me?"

"Ya know I could never refuse you anything. You were and guess still are my very best friend," she assured him. "I'm usually here most nights. Goodnight," she bid and rejoined her fellow prostitutes seeking late night patrons. He headed back to Grantham House returning well after midnight. He was emotionally devastated.

* * *

><p>A slight breeze stirred the warm air of the July evening. He leaned against the Renault in front of Grantham House as he waited for the family to come out. Running his hand through his hair, he was deep in thought, as he had been all week, trying to figure out how to help Gemma. If Bates thought he was distracted before, he was now utterly absorbed by the daunting task of what to do about her current situation. He still hadn't come up with a viable solution.<p>

"_Mama I'll wait outside, it's cooler. Thank you Mr. Carson,"_ a familiar voice startled him out of his meditation. He looked up and he saw Lady Sybil standing on the porch. She wore a white silk gown with beading that glittered in the ephemeral light of the early evening. With her hair pinned in curls, she gracefully approached him down the stairs. Her gown's layers of sheer fabric fluttered in early evening breeze. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. She looked divine, he thought. It was after all the night of her big ball.

"There you are, hello," she warmly greeted him as he brushed off his uniform and stood ready to serve.

Her exquisite beauty transfixed him. The orange sunlight of the early evening lent her a radiant aura. "Good evening milady," was all he could muster as he tried to arrest his stare.

"I sneaked out," she said in a whisper. "I knew you'd be waiting out here. I wanted to talk to you before my parents and Granny come out," she confessed beaming and clearly happy to see him. "You are well?"

"Yes milady," he dutifully replied.

I see you in passing, but...I, it's been two months now and I miss…" but for some reason she couldn't finish what she started to say.

He didn't know quite what to say either so he stalled, "So this evening's your big night, are you excited milady?"

"Thank you for asking. Oh I don't know, I suppose I should be excited. Since I was a little girl, I was told this was something to look forward to, to cherish. Mary and Edith promised me I would be full-fledged woman once I was presented at court. But to be honest, it all seems rather silly, insignificant relative to all that's happening in the world. Spending the evening being ogled and put on display like a prized Ming vase at an auction is not what I would call memorable. Perhaps my moral compass has shifted somewhat," she said with a tone of resignation in her voice.

"I'm sure it will be a wonderful evening milady," he tactfully responded trying to maintain some modicum of professional distance between them. But he did not expect her to answer in this manner. Quite the opposite, he thought she would be delirious with anticipation of her big debut.

"I could never tell Mama and Papa this. They would be disappointed in me. And Granny will think I'm daft. She would say that I'm suffering from dementia due to my fall in Ripon," she laughed. "But I think you understand what I mean, don't you?" she asked sincerely of him looking into his eyes for confirmation.

She really was remarkable. "I do understand milady," he told her, pleased that she took him into her confidence. Regardless of how much he tried to erect a wall of decorum between them, there was something that drew him to her. He was beginning to wonder if the attraction was mutual.

"How's your brother?" she then asked.

"I haven't…" he began, but just then Carson opened the door for Lord and Lady Grantham. Her mother called out to Sybil: "Oh, we were wondering where on earth you'd gone off to my dear. And you're already out here. You must be eager to get to your very first ball."

"Yes Mama, I'm right here," she said turning her attention to her parents.

He grabbed his hat from the front seat, buttoned up his uniform, and went to open the car door. He gazed forward and assumed his position as the household's chauffeur. She gathered the flowing layers of her evening gown. Signaling she needed assistance, she held out her hand to get into the car. As she took his hand, she deliberately squeezed it. Sybil smiled knowingly at him and longingly, he detected. She was pleased to reconnect with an old friend.


	11. A Change of Heart

_More about the London season, there are only two more to go. Is this the Branson you imagine? Enjoy!_

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><p>Chapter 11 – A Change of Heart<p>

_Where is she?_ Branson wondered as he waited at the designated street corner. Mr. Carson gave him the entire day off because of his late evening duties resulting from Lady Sybil's ball, which had lasted till 2 in the morning. On this warm summer day, he was pleased to be out of his uniform and restless for a change in his current predicament. Just as he pulled out his watch to check on the time, she sprinted from around the corner with her hand firmly grasping her brown hat.

Dressed in dark blue coat and grey skirt, she tried to catch her breath. Her cheeks were flush from running. "Whew, so sorry to be late Mr. Branson," Millie apologized. "Mrs. Crawford made us turn all the mattresses this mornin' before I could come find ya. She can get testy if we don't finish."

"Not a bother, just glad you could meet me," he assured her. "And please its Tom." He was glad she came and glad that this afternoon with Millie was at least a small step toward getting on an even keel. Even though his heart and mind were tied into a knot of contradictory desires and rationales, he was determined to move forward.

"Sorry but I came to tell ya that I'm to be back in two hours. So I'll not be going with you to the movie theatre today," she conveyed her regrets. "Her Ladyship wants to have another dinner this evenin'—something followin' yesterday's big to do. So I have to go back and help, on short notice, on my one day off no less! I was so lookin' forward to going though."

"I'm sorry you lost your day off," Branson replied, a tad bit crestfallen that his distraction would be brief.

"I was glad you asked me out last week when your family came for dinner. Now the day's ruined!" she exclaimed, disappointed at her canceled rendezvous with a man who clearly had caught her fancy.

"Maybe not completely ruined, we've still got some time. How about we go for a walk in the park. It's a beautiful day, at least you get some air before ya need to get back. How 'bout that?"

"I'd like that very much Tom," she said excitedly, grinning up at him that all was not lost. He had saved the day for her, or at least part of it. Millie slid her arm through his and the two strolled toward the park.

Petite, red haired, and freckled, Millie was a housemaid that Branson became acquainted with last year. While he waited for the family at Lord and Lady Pembroke's dinner party, Mrs. Crawford the head housekeeper had extended an invitation for him to join the staff for their meal. Millie was very flirtatious and was keen on making an impression on the handsome Irish chauffeur. When he returned again last week, she really poured on the charm. He was a bit embarrassed by all the attention. Following Bates' advice he promised to take her out before he returned to Yorkshire. Since she wasn't allowed followers, this had to be done covertly under Mrs. Crawford's nose otherwise she'd lose her position. Attractive and obviously available, Millie might just be the right medicine to mend his broken heart.

* * *

><p>The early afternoon sun filled a crisp blue sky as they strolled arm-in-arm along the shady lanes of Hyde Park. They chatted away. He found out that Millie had been working for the Pembrokes since she was thirteen, starting at the bottom of the staff hierarchy as a laundry maid. Like many working class women, she was in school till she was twelve, then went straight to work. Fortunately, she said she found a good situation and didn't have to labor long and dangerous hours in a factory like some in her family. She was now twenty-three and hoped to leave service to get married, perhaps even return to her old neighborhood in South London to live near her family. She confessed, "last year when I met ya, I whispered to Ginny that's the one for me! He's got a good head on his shoulders I told her." The topic of marriage was certainly one he was not keen on discussing, so he conveniently switched the subject to her favorite songs and whether she enjoyed dancing.<p>

Since she'd never left London, except twice to go to the seashore with the Pembrokes while on holiday, Millie wanted to know all about Ireland and what life there was like. He told her a little about himself and his family. Hinging on his every word, she was duly impressed with his knowledge of automobiles. He was enjoying her company, even though their plans had been drastically curtailed.

The park was filled with patrons strolling in all directions, children darting across the lawns, and in the distance Branson heard the familiar call _"Votes for Women."_ He figured there must be some sort of suffrage rally today. Eventually they came upon a modest gathering of about sixty women, their banner announced: National Union of Women's Suffrage Societies. The suffragists had been dispatched around the area to hand out broadsheets outlining their latest demands.

"Oh I don't know about these ladies. Mrs. Crawford says they've all lost their bleedin' minds. She says that they're upsetting the natural balance of things between a man and a woman," Millie naively parroted her head housekeeper.

"So I take it you're not for women's rights then?" he asked.

"What more rights do we need anyways? I don't know what I'm for I'm too busy scrubbing and dusting," she told him as they walked through the hive of suffragist activity.

"That may be just their point," he said, but she didn't quite understand.

Women were stopping passersby to take broadsheets and flyers. "Votes for women!" yelled a young woman wearing a light grey skirt and jacket with her back to the approaching couple. From behind he thought her blue straw hat looked familiar. She turned his way, plunged a flyer into his hand and said forcefully: "Sir you must support votes for women!"

"I do," Branson surrendered as he took the sheet. "Believe me I do," he repeated and held up his hands in defense. He and the suffragist began to laugh. Millie was baffled by what had transpired. "What are you doing here after your big night?" he asked Sybil stunned to see her out and about.

"Handing out flyers, of course," she replied waving her stack. "I signed up for the rally back in Ripon since I knew I was going to be in London. Good that I did, because they were shorthanded today. I had to sneak out of the house. Made a royally good excuse this time. They won't be looking for me. I'll stay clear of trouble—I promise," she smiled devilishly at him, proud of her subterfuge. Now that her big debut was over, Sybil was back to her old mischievous ways he observed.

Suddenly he remembered Millie on his arm and realized he should introduce her. "Ahem, Miss Evans this is, this is…" he stuttered not sure just how Lady Sybil wanted to be known amongst her fellow suffragists.

Instead, she held out her hand and graciously introduced herself, "I'm Sybil Crawley, delighted to meet you Miss Evans."

"Please to meet ya. Call me Millie, everyone else does," she greeted Sybil. "So you two know each other from here then?"

"From Yorkshire," Sybil and Branson said to her in unison.

"Oh I see," Millie replied still baffled by the connection, especially given this new woman's pronounced upper-crust accent.

"Millie was supposed to have the day off. I thought I'd take her out for the day, but she unfortunately can't stay."

"Indeed Tom, I think I'd better be headin' back. Mrs. Crawford 'll have a fit if I'm late with twenty guests coming for dinner. Guess my day off will be next Sunday then?" she subtly inquired hoping they might postpone their plans till then.

"I'm sorry, I'll be back in Yorkshire by then," Branson told her regretfully. "Let me say goodbye to Miss Crawley here and I'll walk you back."

Snaring an Irish chauffeur who works in North Yorkshire may not be such an easy catch Millie discerned. "No need," she said with resignation. "Not supposed be out with a man anyways. Mrs. Crawford would have my head on a platter if she knew. Stay. Help your friend pass out flyers," she suggested.

"Millie would you take one? It explains our current platform; it includes many issues that are relevant to working women. There's an address on the back in case you want to know more," Sybil thoughtfully handed Millie a flyer.

"Goodbye Millie," Branson held out his hand to shake hers. "Perhaps I'll see you next July."

"Maybe," she waved goodbye, then walked off.

"I didn't mean to once again spoil your afternoon off," Sybil told him.

He wondered if he would ever see Millie again, somehow he thought not. "Oh, I think it had already begun to head downhill long before our paths crossed just now. She's a nice girl though, housemaid for Lord Pembroke," he said watching Millie disappear into the Sunday crowds.

"Oh, I see," Sybil replied with a hint of disappointment when she gathered their association might be of the romantic sort.

"If ya need a hand, I'll stay and pass out flyers milady," he quietly said to her. "It'll be fun and for the cause."

"Can you? Will you?" she wanted to make sure. He nodded and she handed him half her flyers, "start with these."

"Votes for women," he yelled. And he spent the rest of his afternoon off proselytizing for women's rights.

* * *

><p>Branson was quite successful in his distribution efforts. A man was an unusual sight at such a rally, so both men and women stopped to listen to what he had to say. He quickly dispensed his pile of flyers and took additional ones from Sybil. He would stop and explain part of their platform to interested parties. He would even debate with naysayers, who he also persuaded to take a flyer. Needless to say, she was duly impressed with his public presence. It was about half past five when they finished handing out their piles.<p>

"You were quite popular," she observed as they left the rally. "I think you have a promising future in politics, you have a way with people."

"Oh I'm not sure about that milady. But if I believe something is important I'll stand my ground," he said walking by her side with his hands in his pockets.

"So I've noticed. I like that about you," she complimented him. They had arrived at the edge of the park, Sybil turned to him and inquired: "I think I owe you something to drink from our last adventure in the park, may I finally repay you?"

"No need milady," he responded both out of respect to their professional relationship (recalling Mr. Carson's warnings about propriety two months prior) and desirous of not remaining too much longer in her company. He was confused enough.

"Please, it would make me happy? We can go to that place again, what was it the Mason Arms? You've helped me again today—it's the least I can do."

"But I'd rather…" he began to say, but he stopped his plea in mid-sentence, since he knew he couldn't win against her arts of persuasion. "As you wish milady," he conceded.

They continued to talk about the rally and the news of the movement as they made their way over to the Mason Arms. He opened the door for her to step into Mrs. Hall's dining room.

"Mr. Branson, good to see you again. Mr. Bates was in earlier," she welcomed him back.

_Christ! _he thought. He was pleased to have dodged explaining to Bates why he brought the Earl's daughter there. "Good evening Mrs. Hall," he greeted her.

"And who's your lady friend here?" Mrs. Hall pried expecting an introduction.

Sybil intervened sensing that Branson was in an awkward situation. "Sybil, Sybil Crawley is my name. Pleasure to make your acquaintance Mrs. Hall."

"Miss Crawley, good to meet ya," Mrs. Hall offered and then she added after looking Sybil over, "Hah so it is you! I thought ya said this one got away. Guess you're keepin' her all to yourself then." Mrs. Hall led them over to a table and gestured with her plump arms for them to sit. "I'll put you two over here in this nice quiet corner," she walked off giggling, satisfied at her plans to stoke the flames of love—as if Branson weren't already hot enough under the collar to be caught in this situation…yet again.

"Whatever does she mean?" Sybil asked perplexed by Mrs. Hall's insinuations.

"Oh, it's not very important," he shook his head and tried to shift the conversation. "What would you like to have?"

"Well I'm actually quite hungry, would you mind if I ate something?" she asked him. "I barely ate anything in that hot stuffy ballroom last night. This morning I just grabbed tea and toast; they all think I'm going to have Sunday dinner elsewhere. If I don't eat now, I won't eat later. I'm quite famished really."

"The lamb roast here is excellent, had it last Sunday with Mr. Bates," he suggested. Mrs. Hall came over and took their order and he decided to join her for a meal, he too was hungry after his busy afternoon activities.

"And might I ask where you told Lord and Lady Grantham you'd be for the entire day?" he queried knowing she'd want to confess her cleverness, and not adding the formal address of "milady" so as to not raise suspicions of her aristocratic status in the inn's small dining room.

"I was quite clever," she leaned forward, her arms on the table and her blue eyes looking brilliant in the candlelight. "I told them that Caroline Tarrant daughter of Lady Kentworth had invited a group of debutantes over for Sunday dinner. And that beforehand I had promised that I would come for tea and help Caroline with a needlepoint project she was finishing—it's true. I swear I didn't make it up. There really is such a party."

"Oh, I believe ya," he took her side and waited for the scheme to unfold.

"This morning I sent Caroline a note that I was sick in bed with cold caught from a drafty window I sat near last night. So my parents think I'm there and she thinks I'm in bed. But in reality I was at the rally and I'm now with you—two places that make me vastly more happy than some silly dinner and I always abhorred needlepoint anyway," she finished her outlining her machinations. She sat back in her chair, sighed then revealed, "best of all it gives me a day of freedom with no one to please, no one to answer to, a day to just be me—Sybil Crawley."

"Well I'm glad you spent it with your cause. Did you at least enjoy yourself last night at your ball?" he asked recalling how beautiful she looked in her white gown as she walked down the stairs of Grantham house. He was certain there had been many handsome bachelors at her beck and call.

"It was a big affair with many finely dressed gentlemen and ladies. I've never seen any spectacle quite like it. The King and Queen were there, albeit briefly. I was presented by my grandmother, of course, since Mama is American," she told him.

"Sounds like a big to do. The Dowager Countess must have been proud to present her last granddaughter."

"It was a big to do. All to make sure that women continue to bear the future heirs of these exclusive families. It all felt suffocating, like I was trapped. At times I felt I couldn't breathe the air was so stuffy inside that ballroom," she cringed. "I told you yesterday I thought I would be like a Ming vase at auction, but in reality it was rather like being a prized thoroughbred, a winning filly paraded in front of herd eager stud horses," she laughed.

He too laughed at her assessment, "I couldn't have been that bad?"

"Oh I've no interest in a boring lot of bachelors or pursing marriage at the moment. Especially now that I know that women can do more than curtsy to Queen and needlepoint. We have to do more, which is why I signed up to participate today. I woke up this morning not with visions of my grand ball, but eager to rally for the cause."

"Here, here," he praised her commitment; once again utterly surprised by her changed perspective on what her life was going to be about.

Mrs. Hall brought them their food. "Here you two, lamb for the lady, roast pork for the gent. Enjoy," she wiped her hands on her apron and surprised them, "And I'm going to give you both a plate of my special treacle pudding—on the house."

"Thank you Mrs. Hall," Branson said raising a brow at the attention.

Both were quite hungry after their busy afternoon in the baking sun and plowed through their meals in no time. Mrs. Hall brought their desert, along with a glass of port also on the house. When Sybil inquired what ever he had done to warrant such royal treatment, Branson told her to trust him that she didn't want to know.

When they finished Mrs. Hall's excellent pudding, she insisted on paying for the meal. And this time he let her, recalling what she had said about a woman's right to be in charge. He was happy (so was his stomach) to support the cause for women's independence.

* * *

><p>Satisfied and refreshed, Branson and Sybil walked out into the early evening and headed toward Eaton Square. She asked about his brother again. And he filled her in on what he knew about the situation. She assured him that it sounded like Tim wouldn't be charged now that he has legal help. He again thanked her for setting up the meeting with Mr. Crawley. Lost in conversation, they ended up meandering through the nearby neighborhoods.<p>

Then Branson asked her: "We all hear downstairs that Mr. Crawley may be marrying Lady Mary?"

"That is what they've told everyone. Mary seems to be in love with him. And he's asked her to marry him, but she hasn't given him an answer. Truthfully, I don't know if she will say 'yes,' my sister's heart is like a reed in the wind."

"If you don't mind my sayin', the way Mr. Crawley defended you at that brawl in Ripon I thought that you were the object of his affection. Perhaps you could be the next Lady Grantham and not your sister?" he asked her, fishing for any indication she might be in love with her cousin.

"Ha, so you think Matthew is in love with me? No it is my dear sister who has snagged his heart. I'd make a poor Lady Grantham, I'm too soft and too easy," she laughed at this observation. "And anyways from what Matthew told me you did a pretty good job of trying to stop the brawl from starting in the first place and it was you who carried me out of that mess. Perhaps you were really my knight in shining armor, not him as I first assumed," she flirtatiously said to him. "Since we are speaking of snagged hearts, Miss Evans was certainly keen on you this afternoon?" she asked, perhaps doing a little fishing of her own he wondered.

"I was sorry our day didn't quite work out. She's a sweet girl," he replied not wanting to hint at any romantic inclination toward Millie. "I'm glad she's employed in a good household though. It can be difficult for young women who work for unscrupulous employers, especially male ones," he observed.

"You can't mean Millie. I'm sure Lord Pembroke is beyond reproach. Are you referring to someone else?"

The truth of Gemma's plight came rushing back. He stopped and looked around. The sun had almost set and they had wandered into a square some ways from Grantham House.

"What's wrong? I can tell something's wrong, will you tell me?" she asked noticing the sudden change in his demeanor.

He saw a bench in the somewhat secluded square, took off his jacket, and sat down. Sybil sat next to him. He held his head in his hands and looked down at the ground, "Last week, a week ago I saw her again. It's been ten years."

"Saw who?"

"Gemma."

"You mean the girl who ran off, your friend who'd been attacked? You saw her here in London?"

"Yes, I saw her on the Strand. She's become," and he choked up. Raising his head, he took a deep breath and told her: "she's a prostitute." He looked away from her as a tear welled up. He was so determined to help Gemma, he had not allowed himself to feel the pain of what the rape had driven her to become.

She eased her arm around his shoulder and place her other hand on his forearm. "Tom," Sybil softly said, "tell me what happened."

And he told her the entire story of Gemma's travails after she fled Dublin and his promise to help her. When he finished he looked at her, his eyes filled with anguish.

"Life's very unfair, I'm so sorry," she tried to comfort him.

"Sybil, thank you for listening," he felt relieved to have finally told her about his reunion with his old friend. "You're somehow always there when I need someone," he confessed completely at home in this new intimacy—their emotional and physical closeness.

Her hand moved from his shoulders to the back of his neck. She tilted her head and tenderly pressed her lips to his. He didn't know how to respond, he was completely shocked by her unexpected gesture. She pulled away and both stared into the other's eyes not sure of what the kiss actually meant.

"Forgive me, I shouldn't have done that. I think I just wanted end your sadness. You'll think bad of me," she apologized now looking away.

"No I could never think bad of you. Never." _What did he feel just then? Does she know he's in love with her? What's the proper thing to do?_ He cleared his voice trying to determine what to do next, "Ahem, I'm sorry my head's been in a fog about Gemma. I shouldn't have brought you here. We should be heading back to Grantham House. You need to get home from your dinner party." Then he stood up and gestured for them leave.

"No, no wait. I think I have an idea. Something that might help her," she said suddenly looking up at him. He sat back down and folded his hands to listen to her suggestion.

"Your goal is to try to get Gemma work, so she doesn't have to prostitute herself?"

"Yes, but I haven't come up with a solution and I head back, we all go back to Downton in a week."

"Well, one campaign of the National Suffrage Societies is to help women precisely in her situation. Our big city chapters in London, Manchester, Liverpool offer them a place to stay. We help them find work in other professions. You know this of course, but she and those like her suffer from a lack of power, not of moral judgment," she reminded him.

Branson looked down at his hands. He took a moment to consider Sybil's brilliant suggestion.

"The information is on our broadsheet, I have a copy in my purse, it's all folded up but in it you can find the address of the chapter that helps these women—I think it's in the East End."

It seemed like a viable solution to this difficult problem, one that Gemma would likely agree to. "I think she would do it," he said to her again, "Thank you."

"I'm glad I could help," she replied looking longingly at him.

"I can't believe how engaged in these sorts of causes you've become, how wise you are beyond your years," he conveyed his admiration. She breathed in and her lips turned up in a smile. Next, he took her hand—it was soft. He brought it to his mouth and gently kissed it. "Sybil I…" he began, but before he could finish he leaned in and kissed her sweetly.

When he was done, Sybil raised her hand and caressed the side of his face. In the twilight she appeared regal and vulnerable at the same time. Their desire—one that had been brewing for months—could no longer be contained. His arms went around her shoulders. Her hands encircled his neck. Their lips met once again, but this time the kiss overflowed with passion, their mouths opened to drink in the pleasurable taste and feel of the other.

When the kiss ended, they stayed in an embrace. Neither spoke, as if words would color the purity of what each had discovered in that moment.


	12. The Journey Home

_A conclusion to the end of the last chapter, two more to go (for real this time). Enjoyed the reviews. Enjoy the new chapter!_

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><p>Chapter 12 – The Journey Home<p>

Branson had made this trip many times since Lord Grantham hired him as the family's chauffeur. He knew the various groves of trees, the turn just over the bridge, the stone barn that was just beyond the crossroads. He knew every bump and hole in the road. It was a drive that he could almost make blindfolded it was now so familiar. And yet this journey would be like no other. He couldn't quite decide if the butterflies in his stomach were anticipation or anxiety—most likely a bit of both. He was driving to the train station to pick up Lord and Lady Grantham along with Ladies Edith and Sybil on their way back to Downton from their month in London.

He had neither seen nor talked to Sybil since that night in the square. They had deliberately avoided one another for the remaining week of the family's London stay. Given that Grantham House was not as sprawling as Downton Abbey, this was no easy feat, but they managed to steer clear of one another for those last few days. Except for one evening when the family went to dine at the home of Lord Grantham's sister Lady Painswick in Belgrave Square. That night they avoided any eye or physical contact. It was pure agony. This isn't what love was supposed to feel like he bemoaned.

While in the presence of her parents and sisters, he faced the daunting task of concealing everything he felt toward her. But he wasn't alone in this, she had to do the same. Both tacitly understood why they could never publically confess their love.

Today as he had done all last week, Branson would have to do his duty. He would be punctual and courteous. See everything that was needed without being seen. That was what Lord Grantham paid him to do. He understood that the formalities of their respective social classes—the decorum and rituals of servant and served—would have to orchestrate and maintain their expected roles. This would have to initiate the foundation of a new wall of propriety that would separate them from now on. In this he was determined, along with trying not to dwell on what happened that summer evening—it would be another task of Sisyphus he expected. And sure enough, try as he might he couldn't stop his mind from drifting to that night…

* * *

><p>Branson pulled out the embrace with Sybil after what seemed like an eternity. With his arm still around her, they relaxed back onto the bench. Her head nestled on his shoulder and on his knee, his hand laid atop hers. They reveled in the newfound intimacy of their friendship. Neither uttered a word for several minutes as darkness edged out the twilight. The square was abandoned at this hour.<p>

Everything was alive—far off sounds, nearby smells. He'd never felt such bliss. _Is this how love feels_, he wondered? How could one live what's called a life and not experience such joy? In some ways it reminded him of other things he remembered—his first kiss, the day he found out he could continue with school, swimming in the country on a warm summer day, the smile on the face of his mother when she first saw him in uniform. It was a feeling that all things are possible, that life felt whole and full. Her body resting against his, he could feel the rise and fall of her breath.

"_You_ kissed _me_ ya know. I thought you were incorrigible before, but now…" Branson teased as he stared into the night.

"It was rather brazen," she offered.

"It was wonderful," he raised his brow and smiled.

"After you told me Gemma's story you seemed in such agony," she spoke softly. "At that moment it was like I could feel your tears although I wasn't crying. It was quite strange really. I've never felt that connection with someone before. Kissing you seemed the sensible thing to do," she said squeezing his hand and interlacing their fingers.

"It certainly lifted my spirits," he confirmed.

"And wait a moment, you also kissed me," she raised her voice.

"Consider my kiss returnin' a favor. Your kiss was one of the kindest gestures anyone has ever made towards me," he said as he gently grazed her forehead with his lips. "But with all seriousness, are ya fine with what just happened?"

"Hmmm, more than fine," she breathed in. "What about you?"

"I can't believe we're sittin' here like this. I knew how I felt about you, but wasn't sure it was returned. I thought it impossible."

"You mean with all my pestering, barging, or rather hobbling into your cottage, spending time with you in the park, in the woods, not wanting to ever say good-bye—you had no clue as to my feelings toward you? I guess I wasn't obvious enough!" she said amused by his doubt.

"I guess I didn't want to believe it, I shouldn't believe it. You and I live in different worlds," he had finally dared to say what neither wanted to admit, but what ultimately doomed their love before it could take its first breath.

She pulled herself to sit up and they looked at one another still astonished at their revelation. As he drank in the beauty of her face, he recalled what Yeats had written: _"__my heart will bow…before the unlabouring stars and you."_ He could see the passion in her eyes, her supple lips beckoning. He drew her into a kiss once more. This time it was a hungry kiss. Her hands reached inside the collar of his shirt needing to feel the warmth of his skin. He gently caressed her neck as their passion subsided.

A spark of desire had surfaced between them. A powerful emotion "desire," he thought, one that was perhaps new to her. He could have made love to her then and there. To know her fully and in every way was a natural outcome of what they were discovering.

Sybil and Branson heard the faint sounds of a clock strike ten. It was a countdown to the inevitable as the last chime rang out. Neither wanted to leave this perfect moment, but each knew that they must go home and return to their respective places. Both accepted implicitly that what they had found could not go beyond that evening. They would have to hide it, deny their feelings, hoping that time would eventually extinguish their desires. Their love (he could now name it) was like a rare orchid found in some far off jungle, wildly beautiful, but extremely delicate, if moved from its habitat it would whither and die. Without saying a word the lovers were resigned to having these few precious moments together.

Branson withdrew his arm from around her. He then stood up, put on his jacket and offered his hand: "I'd best get you home."

She looked up, smiled barely and took his hand, "Yes, I'm ready."

* * *

><p>Branson parked in front of the village station and walked in the small structure to find a porter to assist with the luggage. He waited for the 4:15 train from London to pull into the station. The family would of course be in the first class accommodations, so he waited near the front of the platform. Dressed in a khaki overcoat and flat cap, Lord Grantham stepped out of the train first. His Lordship noticed Branson, waved, and walked toward him as Branson took his proper pose of servitude and nodded to his employer.<p>

"Good to be back home isn't it Branson?"

"Yes milord its good to be home. The car's just out front and the porter will bring your luggage shortly," he informed his employer.

"Thank you," replied Lord Grantham. "I believe my wife and daughters will take a minute longer, so we can head out to the car."

Branson followed Lord Grantham out through the waiting area. As they neared the motorcar Lord Grantham surveyed his vehicle and asked him, "I'm thinking of purchasing a new automobile. Although, perhaps not a Renault again," he rubbed his chin. "I want to support our local industries. I think an all-British made motorcar might be a good move. What do you think about this idea?"

"Well your Lordship this is my opinion on what you might want to consider and why," Branson began. He carefully outlined what he thought the innovations would be in the industry. He also mentioned what companies would lead with these new inventions. And he updated Lord Grantham on the status of his current motorcars—the Renault and Hotchkiss.

"So you are suggesting an Austin or Daimler if I want to buy a British automobile. And I did not know of the American company that has set up a factory to manufacture cars here. Both chassis and the coach all from the same company, how novel?"

"Yes, I believe the Ford Motorcar Company has been sellin' thousands of cars over in America, something called a Model T for not very much money. Its an everyman's car so to speak," he informed his employer.

"You may be right their manufacturing methods are going to radically change who can buy one. We'll be seeing them everywhere no doubt," his Lordship nodded and turned toward his chauffeur, "I appreciate the sound advice Branson."

"You're welcome milord," he replied, trying to stay focused on his responsibilities and the needs of his employer.

"You seem to be up on these things, I am impressed with your knowledge and your literacy. And you also seem keen on many other topics, as I gather from the log in my library."

"Yes, milord. I want to thank you again for lettin' me borrow books from time to time. You do have an extraordinary collection," he appreciated Lord Grantham's generosity. "Many things I've wanted to read, but have never had access to."

"Well, I respect a man who respects the value of knowledge. I only wish the rest of the world could muster mutual respect. The news from abroad is not good," Lord Grantham relayed with a heavy sigh.

"Indeed sir. I've been closely followin' the developments. Trouble's brewin'" he said with a tone of consternation in his voice. "Excuse me milord, your bags have arrived," he said.

Branson proceeded, with the assistance of the porter, to load the luggage onto the back of the motorcar. He finished tightening the straps when he saw out of the corner of his eye Sybil arrive with her mother and sister. She wore her blue skirt and jacket, and the same blue straw hat she wore that night in the square. His heart fluttered the moment he saw her. Lord Grantham assisted the women into the car, while he went around to crank the engine. _This is your duty and she's your mistress_ he kept reminding himself.

When Branson slid behind the wheel, he noticed that Lady Sybil had taken the seat that shared a back with the driver's seat. Their heads and shoulders were barely six inches apart. He could feel the aura of her presence. As he put the car in gear he remembered the last time they were this close…

* * *

><p>Sybil took his arm and they strolled back to Eaton Square. Each step brought them closer to the end of their special evening.<p>

"Thank you for the help with Gemma's problem. I'll try to find her before we leave London this week and go with her to the chapter's office. With my schedule, it won't be easy during the day, but I'll find a way," he told her as they went along.

"I'm just glad I could help her and you in some small way. I think with you by her side, she'll make the right decision. If you also need an excuse I could tell my father you need to take me someplace or another, and that would give you some time away from Grantham House," she suggested.

"You're too kind, but I'll figure out a way," he assured her. He knew that getting Sybil involved with Gemma's problem would be very risky and he did not want to cause her any more friction with her family. "But I appreciate your offer and your determination—I admire that about you," he said now holding her hand.

"I suppose in your mind there's a fine line between my determination and impetuousness," she poked fun at her past behavior.

"Now I understand the reasons for your impulsiveness, at least toward me that is."

"Ha," she laughed. "But sometimes my hotheadedness does get me into trouble, as you well know after the Ripon debacle. And sometimes my determination fails miserably, as it has with Gwen. I haven't been able to help her," she shook her head. "I don't know what to do next I'm afraid."

"You will keep trying. Don't give up, be more creative."

"Trust me I have been. I even applied to a job for her, one she didn't get in the end," Sybil conveyed her disappointment. "One evening, Gwen told me that if I want something it will come to me, but it wasn't the same for her. Her dreams weren't going to come true. I'd never realized till then the gap between rich and poor was so vast. I've been so sheltered, so naïve about how other's live in the world," she confessed. "But you would have been proud. I told her we had to stick together and I'd keep fighting for her. You would fight wouldn't you?"

"I'll stand up for my beliefs, but in truth I'm tired of all the fightin'. Or at least the physical kind."

"You mean like your fight with that horrible man in Dublin who attacked Gemma and killed your mother?"

"That, plus others. So many, I've lost track. The world can be a merciless place. Once when a strike took place so's my father couldn't work and my ma was givin' birth to my sister Sophie, we'd no food for days. I'd never felt hunger like that. We pulled through helped by the kindness of neighbors, but I'll never forget it. Never. There and then I promised myself I'd make sure that it wouldn't happen to poor people ever again," he said.

Sybil was shocked at his childhood story, "I didn't realize that life with your family had known such poverty or difficulty. But you've come so far."

"That's what I mean by merciless. Sometimes the only way to stay alive, to survive such wretchedness is with your fists, or at least it appears that way to many in that situation. But I've had my fill of fightin'—believe me. I came close to killin' Donnelly."

"But you didn't."

"No I did not. That wasn't the person I wanted to be. I wanted to use my mind, not my fists. I knew I was better than that, so I had to get away from there, from everything and everyone. I came here to escape the storm that was brewin' about me. When I came to my interview, I was hopin' Mr. Carson wouldn't see the scar on my face from a brawl in Liverpool a few days before. Thought I wouldn't get the job if he'd noticed," he recalled the events from well over a year ago.

"A scar? On your face?" she stopped trying to discern where it was.

"Yes here," he pointed to his hairline as they stood under a street lamp.

Facing him she reached up and traced the outline of the scar with her finger, she ran her fingers through his hair. Her tender touch sent shivers down his spine. He wanted her desperately, but knew he could never have her. He closed his eyes, took her hand, and kissed it. "But that's all behind me now. I'm someplace different. I've found…" and he hesitated to finish his sentence. He then turned away from her to continue walking toward home.

"So you're telling me to be patient then. That change takes time?"

"Yes be patient with Gwen. Knowing your strength and convictions, you'll find a way for her to become that secretary," he reassured Sybil in her quest to help the housemaid. "It took a long time for the world to become this way, it'll to just as long to make it into somethin' different. She'll find her place," he told her as they arrived to the edge of Eaton Square.

"And perhaps a place for us too?" Sybil asked quietly.

Branson could not reply.

* * *

><p>"<em>Sybil,"<em> Branson heard Lady Grantham call from the inside the car.

"Sybil, my dear, what on earth are you thinking about? You had the most serene smile on your face. I bet it was about your ball last week?" asked Lady Grantham of her youngest daughter's mood.

"I was thinking about how magnificent the countryside looks in the late summer. Isn't it splendid, the air is so fragrant," she tactfully avoided the question.

"Did you enjoy your ball?" her father asked.

"Yes, I suppose I did, father."

"You seemed to be the center of attention with all the eligible young men around you. Did any of them catch your fancy?" Lord Grantham wanted to know.

"It was difficult to tell what they all wanted, they were going from girl to girl like bees in search of honey."

Her mother then added, "Well I thought that Lord and Lady Stafford's son, oh what ever is his name? Rupert Wells-Fitzgerald, that's it. I thought he was particularly taken with you. I believe he's accepted a commission in the Coldstream Guards. He'll look very dashing in his red uniform don't you think?"

"Mama, I think Caroline was the focus of Wellie's attention not me. I so want to go for a long walk when we return home," Sybil tried to shift the topic away from the ball, which Branson knew she had not enjoyed as much as her family believed.

"Speaking of Caroline. She's a lovely girl. How was her dinner party with the other debutantes? I suspect it was full of gossip and speculation for you girls. You've barely said a word about it," her mother inquired.

"Oh it was as these things go," was all she could muster to say about the party she never attended.

"Since that evening, you look different. I don't know what exactly—something about how you carry yourself, tone of voice. I noticed the day after you came back from Caroline Tarrant's dinner party. More mature, more certain—I guess the ball really was a rite of passage then?" Lady Grantham observed.

"Yes Mama, I did have a special evening. I was sad to see it end," was all he heard Sybil say in response, but he was the only one who knew what she meant.

Branson recalled how their special evening ended…

* * *

><p>"We're home," he said looking across the way at the white terrace house that sat on the corner. "You should go first, I'll watch you go inside from here." He would have to draw doubly upon his wellspring of strength—both to let her go and to ensure that she too could go through with parting ways. His spirit was reeling from the range of emotions in these two short hours—anguish, surprise, love, optimism, desire, distress, and finally, acquiescence.<p>

Branson and Sybil turned to face each other to say goodbye. It was as if they were swimming in a raging river with one current pulling one way—the reality of their situation—and the other tugging in the other direction—the truth of their love.

"I can't. I don't want to leave you," she confessed looking up at him with her lovely eyes beginning to well up.

"Please, don't cry," he gently wiped a tear from her cheek. "You'll be all right. You will be fine. I promise. We both knew this was destined to be a brief interlude from the start," he tried to fortify her resolve to walk away from him.

"I know in my mind that's true, but my heart tells me something different."

"Mine does too. But we can never be," he regretfully told her. "Sybil, you're one of the strongest people I've ever met. Rally that resolve. You'll have to in the days to come," he reminded her as he took her into his arms one last time. He gently kissed her soft raven hair. He could feel her sob as she struggled to say good-bye. He caressed her back. "You can do this."

"I'll try," she replied as tears streamed down her cheeks.

He took her face in both his hands. "D'ya want Mr. Carson see you red-eyed and puffy? He'll wonder if you debutantes got into a right messy tumble tonight."

She tried to laugh through the tears, as she wiped her face, "You're quite right."

A teary eyed mess and she looked utterly divine. He finally told her what he had wanted to say all night and for months now: "Sybil I love you." His lips met hers as if each were taking their last breath, their kiss released such a ferocious passion. It ended and they looked down. She slowly stepped backwards till they were just holding hands. He nodded affirmatively. She smiled, put on her hat, and began to cross the street toward the house.

But before she got no more than halfway. She turned around and came running back.

"Tom, I forgot to give you this," and she reached into her purse and handed him the folded broadsheet. "It has the address for Gemma. Will you at least let me know what happens?"

"Yes I will. I promise"

They stared longingly one last time. She ran into his arms and he kissed her softly and sweetly one last time. She took a deep breath and headed to Grantham House.

She opened the gate, stopped, and turned around to wave. She climbed the stair. Mr. Carson instantly opened the large wooden door. He could overhear their conversation.

"_Welcome home Lady Sybil. Since Lord and Lady Grantham have retired for the evening, I almost had Nelson ring around to the Kentworth's to check on when you'd be returning. How ever did you get home milady?"_ Carson said looking outside to see a motorcar or carriage.

"_Oh, I had their driver drop me off in the far corner of the square. I walked a little ways, it was such an exquisite evening, unforgettable really," _he heard her say as she stepped inside the large four story house.

* * *

><p>Branson drove through the Downton's Gothic gate, up the winding drive, and to the front of the imposing edifice. Like clockwork Thomas and William waited on the stair. These were the finely honed procedures of how to welcome the family home, the daily choreography that shaped all of their lives—both upstairs and down. <em>Welcome home,<em> Mr. Carson's booming voice set the household's routines into motion. Its relentless predictability was what he hoped would lesson the pain of what he had discovered and subsequently lost on his trip to London.

Thomas opened the door for Lord and Lady Grantham. He went around to help Ladies Edith and Sybil out of the car. He extended his hand to Sybil, she took it and held it for a second longer than usual. They looked at one another in a knowing gaze that touched the inner most regions of his heart.

Once their luggage was unloaded and taken inside, he turned the car around and drove it back to garage. He then entered his cottage at the edge of the woods. He too was finally back home.


	13. A Day and a Life

_A moment of self-reflection for Tom. I appreciate your thoughtful insights, comments, and reviews. Only one more to go…Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 13 – A Day and a Life<p>

"Now shift to neutral, clutch, feel the engine, clutch then shift…"

The Hotchkiss lurched forward.

"Blast! Sorry Mr. Branson for swearin'. My timin' not so great," Charlie apologized as the motorcar slows down.

"The swearing's quite alright, but just don't want to leave his Lordship's gears in a mangled mess," he said with a hint of trepidation that his effort to teach Charlie how to drive might not have been such a great idea. He was not yet in his uniform as it was still early in the morning before 8 o'clock.

From the main driveway they came to a stop behind the main house. "I'll get it," Charlie said with determination.

"Now I want you to try it again, put it in gear," Branson said patiently. The motorcar slowly crept forward. "Now shift—clutch—listen to the engine—clutch—shift." And sure enough Charlie smoothly shifted the gears of the Hotchkiss's temperamental engine.

"I did it! I did it!" yelled Charlie ecstatic at accomplishing his first smooth shift.

"Well done me lad. Now stop here, take it out of gear, and put on the brake like a showed ya. I'll put the car in the garage," Branson directed to his elated student.

Charlie got out and Branson shimmied behind the wheel. He backed the motorcar into the garage. He also thought it would be prudent to check a few things with the engine in light of the rough treatment it just had in the hands of a novice driver.

"Mr. Branson, thanks ever so much for the lesson. I'm sure you've much to do your first week back from London. I 'preciate the time you've taken to show me how cars work. I'll learn how to shift and clutch I assure you," Charlie said grateful for Branson's interest in his personal development.

"It's the least I can do, it's how I got my start. So I'm just keeping with tradition," Branson patted Charlie on the back recalling the kindness and patience of the men who ran the garage where he learned all these things and more. He remembered that in the rough and tumble environment of the garage, not only did he learn how to repair and drive a motorcar, but much to his ma's consternation, he also learned how to swear up a storm. Even though he was just shy of fifteen it was his first work and an important transition to adulthood.

"Well I've been thinkin' Mr. Branson, I really want to do what you do—not become a footman like me mum wants. But I don't know how to tell her?" Charlie confessed.

Since Branson first met him Charlie had shed his awkwardness and lankiness and grown into a young man. This was about the age that he had made the decision that while he would go into service, he wanted to do something more with his life. Something that was going to change everything that he saw as an injustice around him—poverty, hunger, ill health, grinding work, no work at all, and no access to education. These were the conditions that bred a seething toxic anger in so many of his neighbors and friends. It was an age where he had made important decisions and took risks to discover where his life was going to go.

"Charlie it's your life. You can live it for others under their terms or you can chart your own path. If this is what ya want to do, then I say go after it. There's nothing worse in life than regrets," he advised the young man. Words of wisdom that Branson realized he himself had recently decided not to follow.

"So your sayin' not to be afraid of what I want to do with my life?"

"As I told ya—it's _your_ life. Anyways being a chauffeur is not a bad situation. In fact it's a very good one. One that I suspect will be even more in demand as automobiles become more common, especially if ya know how to fix one. Tell your mother it's a job with a promising future!" he smiled at his charge as he opened the hood of the Hotchkiss to tinker around a bit in the engine before he had to put on his uniform and drive up to the main house.

"Thanks Mr. Branson," Charlie said as he departed.

"Tis nothing, now get going," Branson said he watched the youth walk up the road to the main house. _Ahhh to be young again, _he briefly pondered.

* * *

><p>Branson parked the Renault and headed to the servant's entrance to get his roster of trips for the day. There he encountered Mr. Bates sitting on the bench drinking a cup of tea and reading the newspaper.<p>

"Now there's a sight—a proper English tea service in the back of the house!" he greeted his friend, "Good day, John."

"Morning Tom. Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Bird have put all the platters and dishes for the upcoming garden party on the table in the servant's hall. The clatter of plates and silver is deafening, so there's not much room for me in there. Plus it's a nice summer's day," Bates said looking up to the clear blue sky, "so I don't mind sittin' outside for a bit before I start my late morning duties for his Lordship.

"Seems that party has put everyone downstairs in a tizzy. I'm going to do my best to steer clear of the kitchen for the next few days," he said as he joined Bates on the bench.

"That'd be very wise," Bates confirmed as he took a sip of his tea.

"I wish more folks in the world would steer clear of trouble though. Since that awful assassination in June, I get a sense from the papers that war will be unavoidable," Branson said as looked at the headlines of Bates' newspaper and turned the conversation to a more somber topic.

"Indeed I personally think it's just a matter of time," the valet speculated as he folded the paper. "Was hopin' I'd never have to see another war in my lifetime that's for sure," Bates lamented what he knew to be inevitable.

"What was the Boer War like for you? In Ireland I've seen street fights and some bloody riots, but not anything close to organized warfare," Branson inquired.

"Don't know if you can really say war is organized. Maybe for the generals and the muckety mucks with their maps and maneuvers, but if you're on the ground fighting it's just the primal will to survive ya might say."

"So its not all flags and brass. God, King, and Country then?"

"I was 'bout two, maybe three years older than you are now when I joined up for King and Country. But all those noble sentiments vanish when you're charging into battle, it's all just window dressing. I recall one fierce fight at an unforgivin' hell hole called Spion Kop—where we lost at least hundred or more men in about two hours—the stench, the smell of gunpowder, wounded or dead men of all ranks littered in the trenches. I just remember feeling spent. Like I could sleep for weeks. War's a nasty business and a costly one," Bates said as he patted his injured leg.

"So it taps into the basest of human instincts for survival?"

"Think about it. You've gotta muster enough strength to go out and kill another man."

"I almost killed someone once in a fight, can't imagine havin' the passion to do that again and again. Its not something I look forward to if I have to serve in this coming war," Branson said with a heavy sigh.

"I agree. It's not the kind of passion I'd rather engage in, if you get my drift," Bates offered trying to add levity to their very serious discussion. "Speaking of that kind of passion never heard anymore about your troubled heart? Did you take that housemaid in London out for an afternoon?"

"Oh you mean Millie? She's a lovely girl, a little too keen on marriage though. But our rendezvous was brief, so she did little to distract me. But I tried to follow your advice if that's what you're asking."

"So," Bates started in a low voice with his arms folded and hand rubbing his chin. "You haven't quite put Lady Sybil out of your mind then?"

Branson sat up and looked around. Shocked that his friend and colleague knew anything about him and the Earl's youngest daughter, "What do you mean me and…?" He couldn't continue to lie, "alright how d'ya figure it out?"

"Our room in Grantham House is in the front so I can hear the street noise and Mr. Carson's distinctively loud voice whenever he greets anyone at the door. I heard Lady Sybil come in one warm night saying she had an 'unforgettable evening.'"

"But how did ya put two and two together?" Branson wanted to know, somewhat surprised that anyone knew.

"Then you come in not five minutes later. If ya remember I asked you how your day off was? And you sat down on the bed, all smiles, and said it was 'unforgettable.' Anyways," Bates laughed, "it was the first night you weren't tossin' and turnin' in your sleep!"

"I love her," he spoke plainly. "I shouldn't. I can't figure out how it quite happened, but I do. I think she feels the same way. So there you have it love where it's not suppose to be."

"Indeed, love's a tricky thing," Bates said reflectively.

"We both know nothing can ever come of it. We'll have to go on as if nothing happened and hopefully time will quell the passion. Or at least that's what I hope for," he confessed to his trusted friend. "What would you do if you fell in love someone you weren't supposed to? Someone you could never marry?" he asked knowing that Bates and Anna had some obstacles of their own.

"As you must have guessed I too share some of your difficulties. You don't necessarily marry the person you love in life. But we know our commitments and follow our duty. And speaking of which, we both better be getting on with ours?"

"Thanks John for listening. I couldn't tell anyone. Just glad you know," he said trusting his friend's discretion.

"Tom who knows what will happen? The world's changing I reckon," Bates offered as he stood up and turned around to collect his cup and saucer.

The two friends walked into the main house. Once inside Anna greeted them and she told him that a letter had arrived in the morning mail. He retrieved the letter. He noticed it was from Dublin and that the handwriting was Tim's.

* * *

><p>Branson had a busy schedule for the day. Fortunately none involved Sybil. Mr. Carson asked him to stop in the butler's pantry after he finished taking the Dowager Countess home for the evening.<p>

"Mr. Carson, you asked to see me at the end of the day," Branson came into the room as Mr. Carson was putting away the silver candelabras.

"Indeed I did Mr. Branson, do come in," the head of the household said as he locked the cabinet and gestured to a chair. Then he walked over and closed the door of the butler's pantry. This was meant to be a conversation overhead by no one.

Branson's heart sank. If Bates had figured out his evening with Sybil, perhaps Mr. Carson had done so as well. So he thought he'd take the lead. "Mr. Carson I can explain everything…" he began to confess.

"Oh good, I'm glad you can," Mr. Carson replied with a tone of relief in his voice as he sat down behind the large desk.

"Can do what?" Branson asked now utterly perplexed by what the head butler wished to see him about.

"Explain how to use this _thing_ his Lordship has insisted I have in my pantry," Mr. Carson revealed gesturing to the newly installed telephone sitting on his desk. "Why do things have to change? Consistency is what makes for clarity and reliability."

"Oh ya want to know how to use the telephone then," he determined, relieved that his secret was still safe. "Most certainly, its very simple," Branson began to explain to the older gentleman how to ring up the operator, what to say, how to place a call, what to do when a call comes in, and so forth.

"Heavens, it requires all that!" Carson exclaimed raising one of his bushy brows. "But I suppose it will be useful. I can't imagine how it will make things more efficient, but if it's his Lordship's wish that we have it down here then I will give it a try," he said, resigned to having the new contraption in his stead.

"That's the spirit Mr. Carson," Branson encouraged the butler to adapt to the new ways.

"I appreciate the tutorial Mr. Branson. I trust all is on an even keel for you? I know there was a bit of disruption with your brother's arrival and unexpected difficulties this spring. Has that been resolved?"

"Indeed it has. I received a letter this morning. He's gotten out the trouble with the law thanks to a good solicitor found through Mr. Crawley," he said pleased that his brother's troubles were finally resolved. "And he's even decided to get married to a lovely girl we grew up with. Guess that scrape with the law put some sense in him—at long last," he said of his little brother's good news.

"Well that is excellent news. And I do want to make sure that the private lives of all here at Downton do not disrupt their ability to carry out their duties," Mr. Carson said assuming his role as the authoritative figure of the household. "Speaking of private lives Mr. Branson, might you be thinking of getting married soon? You seem a bit sullen now that you've returned from London."

Branson's heart sank for a second time, "Mr. Carson is there something that has led you to believe I _will_ be getting married?"

"As a matter of fact there is. The day after Lady Sybil's ball I had the afternoon off and went for a walk in the park. I saw you strolling with a young woman."

This statement threw him into a panic, "Mr. Carson I was just walking her back home," he raised his hands to calm the butler as he tried to explain why he might have been with Lady Sybil in Hyde Park that day.

"Well from a distance she seemed like an attractive girl. A petite red-head I recall," Mr. Carson identified who he had seen Branson with that day.

Branson was relieved it was Millie and not Sybil, "Yes, oh yes she's a housemaid for Lord Pembroke. But don't think I'll be marrying anytime soon sir."

"Mr. Branson may I offer word of advice?"

"Why certainly Mr. Carson," he replied curious as to where this conversation was heading.

"Don't wait to get married if you find someone special that you care about," Mr. Carson offered with great sincerity.

Branson realized this was advice coming from experience. "Why not wait?"

"Well when I was, shall we say employed elsewhere, I met a lovely woman—a school teacher she was. She had the most beautiful flaxen hair," he said sitting back in his chair with his eyes staring off into the distance as he reminisced. "I still recall her voice, it was high pitched, like a songbird. Ah lovely creature she was."

"What happened? Why didn't you marry her?"

"You see I had ambitions—namely the ill-fated Cheerful Charlies. And she came from a small country village in Surrey. She and her ways didn't quite fit into the grand scheme of things. As you may have heard the rumors floating about, the end of the Cheerful Charlies' stage career was none too cheerful, in fact it was more like a tragedy. I regret that to this day I let her go," he said looking down at his hands and nodding.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Branson offered in sympathy.

"Ahem," Mr. Carson cleared his throat and looked up, "so while you are still a young man with your life ahead of you find someone to settle down with. Perhaps you won't be spending your entire life in service, a career dedicated to serving the family of others," he advised holding up his own life as an aging bachelor as an example.

"Thank you for taking the time to ask about my personal life. I'll take your kind words under consideration. Good night, Mr. Carson," Branson bid as he stood up and left the pantry.

* * *

><p>That was a conversation Branson had not expected to have this evening. He mulled over the exchange while driving the car back to the garage. But Mr. Carson's concern for his future and thoughtful advice certainly got him thinking about his current situation with Sybil. The events of the day put him into a reflective mood as he opened the door and walked into the cottage. Immediately taking off his jacket, he desperately needed to shed his uniform. Loosening and pulling off his tie, he suddenly felt the urge to free himself from all the constraints that impinged upon his life.<p>

_Was their relationship really hopeless? What if they ran away to get married? What if they could marry, could he support her? Would she even want to leave her life at Downton?_ For the first time he considered the possibilities rather than the impossibilities. He'd never let his mind drift to those considerations because he presumed their relationship could never progress beyond that brief moment in the square. What if Mr. Bates was right: _this impending war would change everything?_ And he already knew from experience that he couldn't live his life for others, he certainly hadn't so far. His mind was swimming with prospects. _Where was his life, his love for Sybil, the world going?_ He got out a pen and some paper, and sat down to write. He began a letter then tore it up. He started again:

_1 August 1914_

_Dear Sybil,_

_I promised I would let you know what happened with Gemma. Before we left London to return to Downton, I did manage to find her late one evening. I told her about what the suffrage society offered. While she wasn't sure she wanted leave her current life, but she did agreed to at least meet me the next afternoon at the office of the East End chapter to find out more. I waited for her outside of the storefront offices for over an hour. I thought she had changed her mind about coming. Just when I had given up hope and put on my cap to leave, she came running down the street. We went inside and were greeted by two women, one older and one younger, who were very kind. They told her that they would try to find her work and that she could temporarily move into a house for the next month that they rented nearby. Rent was free if she would volunteer to help in the office everyday. The two ladies asked Gemma if she had any skills. She informed them she had worked as a housemaid. She also told them that her father had been a teacher and that she could read and write. They said that the poorest children in the neighborhood had no chance of going to school. There was a charity that taught them one day a week. Perhaps she could help them, although it did not pay very much. Gemma asked what I thought and I told her it was a start. I wish you could have seen her face light up. I could tell that it had been a long time since she felt needed. It was the radiant smile I remembered from our childhood. It showed me that if we all band together no matter how rich or poor, that we can make our lives better. It just takes the effort. So I want to thank you again for recommending this place for her._

_As we walked out from the office, Gemma confessed that she had decided not to meet me. But it was the fact that I cared enough to try to find her again and to help her that had made her in turn care about what her life could be. My old friend told me she forgot what it meant to have someone love her, because she thought she wasn't worthy of being loved. I suppose that love is a very powerful emotion in all of its varying kinds. I've also been thinking about us. How our two worlds coexist side by side, but the people in them connect only in very prescribed ways. I thought what we discovered that night in London had no hope of survival in the real worlds in which we live. But today I realized that love, mine for you, is the one thing that gives me hope. I do not know yet what that means. I only wanted you to know my thoughts and that I'm thinking of you always._

_Love,  
>Tom<em>

_ps: received a letter from my brother Tim today. He's out of trouble with the law and about to get married. Yet again I owe you my thanks._

Once done with writing, he folded the letter. His mind, however, was still racing with ideas. He took out another piece of paper and began writing down his thoughts about poverty, women's suffrage, and justice. Once done, he folded this one too. It was well past midnight when he finished his letters. It was already the start of a new day.


	14. One's Proper Place

_This is the last one. WARNING – it does get steamy toward the end, although I hope it's tastefully done. Thanks for the thoughtful comments along Branson's journey, one that has come to an end (at least for now) or perhaps its a beginning. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 14 – One's Proper Place<p>

_Now where's that book? _Branson pondered as he scanned the rows of books stored within their elegant wooden cabinets in Lord Grantham's library. He understood why his Lordship spent most of his time in this room—with its smell of books and well worn red leather furniture, it's confines had a warm and inviting air to it. If he were lord of the manor, this would also be his sanctuary.

Branson had returned and logged a book that he had previously taken out. While there he hoped to borrow _A View of a New Society._ He had seen it before somewhere on a shelf. He wanted to quickly locate it and be on his way. It was one of those books that he was surprised to find there given its author's political leanings. Each time he came into the library to look for a book, he continued to be impressed by the wide array of ideas and philosophies included in the extraordinary collection. And most importantly he was grateful that his esteemed employer would allow him to read whatever he wished.

The evening he had written to Sybil, a letter he discreetly asked Anna the next morning to pass on to her, he also wrote a letter to the editor that he sent to the _Daily Herald. _Somehow putting all of his ideas, observations, and ruminations down on paper felt immensely liberating. It was as if the constant chaos that had filled a good part of his life, was now becoming legible as the external forces—political protests, hunger, strikes, violence—agitating his world received names and rationales. Whether or not the newspaper would publish his viewpoints was a long shot, however he thought it was time to get his ideas out and into the world. Perhaps someone wanted to listen to what he had to say. He desired, or rather needed to write more, thus he thought he could quietly slip into the library in the late morning while most of Downton's denizens upstairs and downstairs prepared for the afternoon's garden party.

_There it is, _he said to himself as he located the thin dark blue leather bound volume. He reached for it and carefully slid it out from its place on the shelf. He opened the pages and began to leaf through the contents. Shortly thereafter a visitor startled him: "Papa, I'm came to say I'm sorry that I wouldn't…let you…in" Sybil's remarks stuttered as she glided into the library carrying a book and looking for her father only to discover someone else. "It's you…"

Both were caught off guard having crossed paths for the first time since their revelatory evening in London more than two weeks ago. They stared intently at one another, as if they'd just met. In her white summer dress Sybil looked angelic. He stood transfixed by her beauty. His heart raced. He swallowed.

"Hello. I thought I'd borrow a book from his Lordship," Branson said interrupting his gaze and looking down at the volume in his hand, "since everyone's up in arms about the party this afternoon, I'm tryin' to escape the pandemonium below, especially 'round Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Bird. You should see Daisy—she's flutterin' around the kitchen like a cornered chicken!" It all felt awkward. He thought he should try to insert some professional distance between them: "I'm to get the Dowager Countess and the Crawleys shortly."

"Oh my it sounds like bedlam in the kitchen, everyone upstairs is also running around in a frenzy preparing for Mama's charity event. That's why I thought I'd sit in here and read till things calmed down a bit. At least it's a lovely Sunday for a party," she said looking out of the window, taking note of the cloudless blue sky and also keenly aware of the awkwardness of this moment. She took a few steps toward him as he stood near the bookshelves. "I too came in here to return a book, as well as to apologize to Papa for not letting him enter the library a few days ago."

"Why not—its his library?" he asked, now curious what her latest scheme had been.

"Gwen had an interview in here with Mr. Bromidge," she said excitedly.

"Who's Mr. Bromidge?"

"He's the man who installed our new telephones."

"Oh you mean the bane of Mr. Carson's existence," Branson replied.

"Now why is that?" she furrowed her brows, head askance.

"You know Mr. Carson—he's not one for the new and the modern. Anyways, Gwen had another interview then?"

"Yes Mr. Bromidge needs a secretary. Gwen needs a secretarial position. She applied to it, listing me as a reference. That route failed rather badly. So I commandeered Papa's library for an interview. When Mr. Bromidge discovered she was a housemaid, it verified for him she was a hard worker. You did say be creative."

"I suppose I did," he said pleased at her strategic use of her cleverness.

"I don't know if Gwen got the job in the end, but at least she had another interview," she revealed, her face radiating with her newly found confidence.

"Well I'm happy for you, and for Gwen. I'm sure she'll get a new situation with you behind her—I'll keep my fingers crossed. So ya didn't give up or in—did you?" Branson approved of her perseverance.

"No I didn't. You gave me the confidence to move forward. I owe so much to you. You always make me feel I can do anything, become anything," she expressed her gratitude to him as her eyes sparkled.

Branson could feel his desire for her reignited. His passionate side wanted to grab her hand and run off, far away from Downton. But his rational side reminded him they could never ever escape the long list of allegiances and obligations that ruled their worlds—it was impossible. "I'd better get on with my duties," he said attempting to reinstate the line of propriety that separated their two classes.

"What's that you're reading?" she asked changing the topic and clearly not wanting to end her time alone with him.

"Oh it's an old book on how to create a modern society. It's by a Welshman who moved to Scotland to open a factory and eventually to America found a town.* My mind has been so full of thoughts lately that I'm tryin' to write them all down," he told her.

"I'm glad you're inspired to write. You can be very persuasive. People listen to you, you know. I saw them gather around you in the park that Sunday. I hope you continue with your ambition and enter politics."

"Oh I don't know, but thanks just the same for the early vote," he smiled affectionately at the woman he loved dearly. He looked at her hand "And where's that one going?"

"I think it came from the section of literature over there," she pointed to a high-up shelf near the fireplace.

"First let's return it to its rightful place and then I'll be on my way," he suggested. And the two walked over to the cabinet. Branson found the small wooden stepladder in a corner of the room, brought it over and opened it. He climbed up. "I can take it" and he gestured outward to Sybil who looked up at him as she stood in front of the ladder.

She handed him the book. Both froze for a moment, each holding an end of the book. "Tom I received your letter, I need to tell you that I…," but she was unable to finish her declaration.

"Lady Sybil," Mr. Carson strode into the library looking for the Earl's youngest daughter. "There you are. And Branson you too," he tilted his head somewhat surprised to find them in the library—alone. As the head butler walked across the room toward them, Branson took the book from Sybil and placed it on the shelf.

"Now there it goes milady. I was just helping Lady Sybil return a book its rightful home," Branson tried to explain their being alone together.

"I came in looking for Papa, and found instead Branson who helped me put this novel back," she verified her presence in the library. Branson stepped down from the ladder and put it back in its corner.

"Um, yes indeed," Mr. Carson said perceptive enough to detect he had walked in on something that wasn't quite what it seemed. "Lady Mary was looking for you milady. Something about a ribbon for your hat?"

"Oh yes, for this afternoon. Thank you Carson," she nodded to Branson and hurried out of the library.

"Branson, I trust that along with the book that everything else is in its proper place as well?" he asked rhetorically alluding to the rules of etiquette that governed the house and the world beyond its gates.

"Of course, Mr. Carson why wouldn't it be? I came to return a book and ended up doin' a favor for Lady Sybil that's all," he replied somewhat rebelliously, testing a fine line of obedience with the head butler. "I'd best be off now to pick up the Crawleys and her Ladyship."

"That would be a very good idea. And by the way there's a letter for you downstairs, given the current use of the servant's hall it's on the side table outside the scullery," Mr. Carson said raising an eyebrow, still perplexed by the unusual mood he sensed in the room.

* * *

><p>Branson went to the village to pick up the Dowager Countess and the Crawleys and drove them back to the house. Before Matthew walked over to the garden party. Branson asked if he might speak with him a moment. It was the first time he had to inform Matthew that no charges had been brought against his brother. And he thanked Matthew once again for the legal advice. Matthew was pleased with Tim's resolution and glad he could help.<p>

After he finished his duties with the family, he brought the car around back and walked into the servant's entrance. He wanted to avoid the busy kitchen, but he also wanted to retrieve his letter. He found it near the scullery. He looked over the cream colored envelope and noticed it was from the London offices of the _Daily Herald_. He opened it and scanned its contents:

_Dear Sir,_

_We at the Daily Herald are pleased to inform you that your letter "Why Suffrage will Change the Conditions for Working Women" will be published in our issue next Thursday. Our editorial board was duly impressed with your breadth of knowledge about these subject matters, along with your own experiences as a worker in service. If you are amenable we would like to commission weekly editorials from you on similar topics concerning the lives of workers in this country. We will of course offer remuneration for your journalist contribution to our fair newspaper._

_We await your reply.  
>Yours faithfully,<br>George Lansbury  
>Editor-in-Chief<em>_**_

_Ha! _he was utterly surprised by the letter. At best, he thought it would be a letter of rejection. He never expected a positive response—one that would not only come with a notification of publication, but also an offer that paid him to write additional ones. Perhaps this was would be his next move, the vocation that he was itching to find an outlet for his talents.

Branson had so much to think about as he put the letter in his pocket. He walked back into the kitchen with the house and kitchen maids scampering about while Mrs. Bird and Mrs. Patmore coordinated the massive undertaking of getting the luncheon out to the guests on the lawn. Branson, however was completely oblivious to the din of activity, his mind was elsewhere. The telephone rang. Its shrill sound startled him out of his contemplative state. It rang once again. "Mr. Carson's telephone is ringin' isn't someone going to answer it?" Branson asked pointing to the butler's pantry where the sound was emanating.

"I wouldn't touch that thing with a ten foot pole," Mrs. Patmore refused. Mrs. Bird seemed to hold the same reluctant sentiments.

"Well I will then," Branson replied, still shocked that some found the new technology threatening. It rang again and he walked into the butler's pantry to answer it.

"_Is Mr. Carson there,"_ said a gravelly male voice on the other end, but Branson did not see the head butler anywhere nearby, so he replied that he was busy. Branson asked if he could take a message. On the other end was Mr. Bromidge who wanted to inform Gwen Dawson that he wished to hire her as his new secretary. Branson responded that he would pass on the message. This was wonderful news. And he decided that Sybil should find out first. She could break the good news to Gwen. He put on his jacket and headed outside to find her at the party.

Men and women in summer attire and straw hats were strolling and milling about Downton's lush great lawn. Branson scanned from afar to see if he could locate Sybil's whereabouts. Off in the distance, just under a large tent, he glimpsed her white dress. He quickly made his way there. She was standing with her sister Edith and two other young women. He approached tactfully and gently grabbed her arm to catch her attention, a move that might be interpreted as an inappropriate gesture for a servant to make to his mistress.

He said in a low voice, "I've got news milady." He then leaned in a whispered in her ear, "Mr. Bromidge rang up to say Gwen got the job."

She was ecstatic and put her hands over her mouth pleased at the new developments. She then excused herself from the conversation and went to tell Gwen the news. Branson followed.

When Sybil found Gwen, who was carrying a tray of dishes, she excitedly told her "Mr. Bromidge has rung. You've done it Gwen, you've got the job!"

Gwen's face was that of disbelief, then elation. The three hugged in celebration.

Branson was glad to see the housemaid move forward with her new career, a young woman who was deciding what she wanted to do in life. She had chosen the place in society she wanted to occupy, rather than have the choice made for her. But he was also glad for Sybil, who had stuck by and encouraged Gwen through numerous failed attempts to find a job. To let her know in the crowd of people his feeling of pride, he discreetly took hold of her hand.

The curious scene amidst the festivities caught the eye of Mrs. Hughes, who walked over to find out what the commotion was between two of the servants and Lord Grantham's daughter. To her relief she noticed that everyone was smiling, so she then asked if there was something they were celebrating. Gwen divulged that she had finally gotten a secretarial position and that her new career had officially begun.

Always vigilant in keeping the inner workings of the household moving along on schedule Mrs. Hughes suggested that Gwen complete her duties and could celebrate later when done with her work.

Branson leaned over to tell Sybil about his good news, "I don't suppose…" was all he managed to say before Mrs. Hughes made sure everyone returned to their assigned place in the order of things. The head housekeeper informed Sybil that her mother had been asking for her.

Sybil looked back at him exasperated that once again social conformity would separate them and walked off to find her mother. Branson watched her leave and reflected on all that was left unsaid between them. Could they ever be together he wondered?

Mrs. Hughes shrewdly ascertained that something was going on between them beyond the appropriate servant-mistress relationship. She offered him a sympathetic warning: "Be careful my lad. Or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart."

Branson decided to deflect her concern by naively feigning, "what do you mean?" But Mrs. Hughes replied only with a stern look of exasperation that he was not going to heed her advice offered with the best of intentions.

* * *

><p>Branson watched the scene of the garden party from the edge of the lawn. It would be another few hours before he would have to drive the family back to the village. He noticed that everyone gathered around Lord Grantham for a moment. Branson assumed that the host must be welcoming his guests to the charity event and announcing their success with the money raised for the cottage hospital. But shortly thereafter he noticed people leaving the lawn and heading back to their vehicles. He also found it odd that servants were beginning to bring in some of the food. He walked over near the serving tent and found Mr. Bates walking toward the house.<p>

"John, so the party's over then?" Branson asked his friend.

"Ya might say that. It's happened, they've finally done it. Blast them," he said looking down shaking his head. "England declared war on Germany," Bates looked at his friend with a somber look on his face.

"War? With Germany—today?"

"Indeed my friend, today. It'll be official and in the papers tomorrow," Bates confirmed.

Branson's heart sank. He instantly knew that this would be a modern war, a war like no other—especially in light of the number of countries that he knew would get drawn into its fighting. The two men, who had talked about this possibility many times, stood there absorbing something that was almost beyond comprehension.

* * *

><p>It was after 8 o'clock when Branson took the Dowager Countess and the Crawleys back to the village. Her Ladyship would usually have many pointed observations to make about the evening, but tonight she was uncharacteristically quiet. When he dropped her off at the Dower House, the doyenne remarked as she took his hand: "I believe there will be many difficulties and challenges that we will have to surmount in the coming months, but we will take it in stride won't we Branson?" she predicted and smiled at him in her way.<p>

"I believe we most certainly will, goodnight your Ladyship," he responded reassuringly with a bow and then he watched as her butler assisted the elderly matriarch into the house. Over the past year, he had become quite fond of the Dowager Countess. He had a deep respect for her—albeit sometimes caustic—honesty. It had certainly been an influence on the intriguing personality her youngest granddaughter.

* * *

><p>It was twilight as he latched the garage door. He reflected on the eventful day—its highs and its lows. He was in a peculiar mood, he felt particularly off kilter—anxious. He took a deep breath of the sweet summer air and gazed up at the evening sky as the suns rays painted their last brilliantly colored strokes across its expanse. Somewhere under that same sky men were already dying. The declaration of war, while he had assumed its inevitability, had nonetheless shaken him to his core. But he also felt a tinge of optimism—he realized it was his love for Sybil. It was the only thing he felt certain about, the one aspect of his life that felt real and gave him hope. And yet it was supposedly the one thing that could never be realized.<p>

Branson opened the front door of the cottage. He sat in the dark room and took off his boots. He got back up and began to unbutton his chauffeur's jacket. He walked over to the shelf to light a lamp. He was startled to find someone else in the room. It was Sybil. She had changed out of her party dress and was sitting in a chair.

"You shouldn't be…" he began to tell her. But before he could finish she stood up and ran into his arms. He held her tightly—each finding solace in the warm embrace of the other. Neither uttered a word, but her presence was precisely what he needed at that moment. Her sweet scent, the touch of her body was comforting.

"I was going to say ya shouldn't be here," he said softly almost whispering after they stood for more than a minute. "But there's no other place I'd rather you be right now," he told her as their embrace relaxed and he looked into her eyes.

"I know I shouldn't be here either. But sitting around with my family, talking about what this war might mean, how we are going do battle with the Kaiser, defeat the German army, it all seemed utterly dispiriting. My mind kept drifting to you—where you were, what you were thinking? I had to come and find you. I hope you aren't angry I snuck into your cottage?"

"How could I be? I'm glad you did or I would have come and found you," he replied with a smile. His hand gently caressed her face. Her hand took his and she kissed it softly. Branson then drew Sybil into a passionate kiss. The softness of her lips, the taste of her mouth, ignited an even greater desire in both than had been discovered that first night. Branson knew they should stop, but somehow the exquisite pleasure he was discovering, the shear physical intensity of his love for her propelled his actions forward.

They pulled out of the kiss for a moment to catch their breath. Both looked down knowing where their passions could easily lead. But neither wanted to stop. Sybil put her arms around his shoulders and confessed: "what I tried to say this morning in the library before we were interrupted was that—I love you," as a tear trailed down her cheek.

He gently wiped her cheek where the tear had fallen, "it'll be fine Sybil. I'm here for you. We're here together. I don't rightly know what's next. I don't care about the future right now." He breathed in. "I love you and need to be with you—here and now. Stay with me tonight if its what you want," he honestly expressed his needs and desires, but also left it to Sybil to make her own decision.

She took a moment to consider his invitation. Then said, "I know I'm supposed to wait for a husband, for marriage. But if women are to be liberated then we also have a right to know our own desires—I realize that now," Sybil boldly replied.

The depth of her commitment to the ideals of women's equality—some quite radical—impressed Branson. As he had suspected over a year ago, this sheltered young woman from North Yorkshire had been a quick fearless study. Sybil's declaration endeared her to him even more. He took her into an embrace again.

"Tom, you're the one I Iove," she whispered softly into his ear, "the only one I want to be with tonight."

Branson took a step back. Sybil watched as he took off his jacket, followed by his vest, and put them on the back of the chair. He gently took her hand and led her over near the bed. He knew this could be painfully awkward for her, since it would be her first time. He would be gentle and patient. He showered kisses around her neck and he could hear her gasp with pleasure. He next took out the pins and let down her soft dark brown hair. Her simple beauty intensified his arousal.

Sybil's hands slowly loosened his tie and slid it from around his collar. She took off his collar and her hands encircled his neck. She gently caressed the back of his neck. "Ahhh," he moaned with delight. She found confidence in her ability to please him. She slid off his suspenders then began to unbutton his shirt and he took it off. Her hands massaged his bare shoulders and arms, as she discovered the sensual parts of his body. The touch of her fingers felt thrilling as they glided across his skin. Sybil raised her arms and he slid off her blouse. He put his hands around to the back of her skirt to undo the button. She stepped out of it. He knelt and took off both her shoes. He stood back up and kissed her sweetly.

When they were fully unclothed, he took her to the bed and they lay down. He propped his head up on his hand and gently caressed her side. Her body glowed in the soft light of the lamp. Her hair cascaded onto the pillow. Her breasts, curves of her thighs, were even more graceful than he could have imagined. He leaned in and softly placed his lips onto hers. Her hands explore his the solidity of his chest. He closed his eyes, stimulated by the pleasure of her touch. In a gesture that signaled she was ready, she rolled onto her back and he moved on top her. "I love you, so very much," Branson uttered softly as the two lovers began to explore the depths of their desire. Both wanted the world to stop as they discovered the peaks of pleasure in their lovemaking. "Tom," Sybil yelled as she climaxed, just as she had beckoned in his dream. That night Branson and Sybil created a world all their own—one filled with desire, love, but most importantly understanding.

Later Sybil lay quietly in Branson's arms as he comforted her. They listened to the sounds of the night drifting through the open window. It had been an extraordinary day. Through its tumult, he was sure he had discovered what he had been searching for this past year.

"Is it what ya imagined," he asked her.

"I could never have imagined something so wonderful," she replied, her hand stroking his torso.

"Tonight was perfect, you were exquisite," he complimented her as he gently kissed her forehead.

"You were so gentle with me, so loving, thank you." She sighed and then asked: "This afternoon you were going to say something to me, what was it?"

"That seems two worlds away at the moment," he interlaced his fingers with hers. "But what I was going to ask was I don't suppose you can celebrate my good news too?"

"What's your good news?" she lifted her head to look up at him.

"You're looking at the _Daily Herald's_ new columnist," he informed her of his new offer.

"You got a job at a newspaper!" she sat up with a big grin on her face.

He sat up also, "Well not exactly. And perhaps I exaggerated a bit. But the paper's editor asked me to write a weekly column of sorts. I think I'm going to do it. I feel my ideas 'll now have an audience."

"Tom I'm happy for you," she leaned over and gave him a kiss. "This is what you've wanted. To use your mind and not your fists." But then she suddenly looked away.

"What's wrong," he asked her sensing a shift in her mood that his news worried her.

"Does this mean that you will leave here, leave Downton?"

So much had happened since he received that letter earlier in the day Branson had had no time to think through the consequences. When he told her earlier that night he didn't want to think about the future, precisely because he knew it would be difficult, next to impossible to determine what was next for them. He took her hand to reassure her, "the one thing you never have to fear is that I'll leave you. Tonight proves we belong together, nothing 'll change that I promise." And the two fell into a passionate kiss, making love once more.

* * *

><p>Branson and Sybil walked hand in hand through the darkness past the dependencies, the main house, and then across the lawn to the temple. They had decided to watch the sun rise and that Sybil would return to the house in the early morning, making the excuse that she had gone for walk at dawn. The warm light of the sun was just beginning to break through the horizon when they arrived at the temple's stairs. They sat down. Branson put his arm around her and leaned back against one of the colonnade's large columns. Both watched the mist drift across the lawn as daylight colored the monochrome landscape.<p>

"Its hard to believe there was a party here just a few hours ago. Its hard to believe the nation, perhaps the world's at war," he said reflecting on the last twenty-four hours.

"I was shocked when Papa made the announcement. It was like my heart stopped."

"Mine too."

"What do you think will happen?"

"Who knows how long it will last or how many countries will be drawn into fightin' each other? One thing I know about violence is that it can take over people, make them irrational, make them do unimaginable, horrible things. Fighting of any kind is destructive to everyone involved. And from my own experience I know it's deadly consequences."

"Perhaps it won't last long."

"I suspect like no other war before, this war 'll be planned like a machine. Unless we rally to end it soon, it could go on for years."

"Then that is where we should pour our energies—for peace, like we've done for the vote."

"You may be right," he said looking down at her. "How did you become so wise?"

"I had a wonderful teacher. He was a patient Irishman who had the most beautiful blue eyes," she teased.

As the sun shed light on the new day, he had an epiphany. He turned toward her then said: "Sybil I don't know what's going to happen next. I feel this war has already changed everything. The only thing I know for sure is that I love you. Will you come with me if I leave Downton? Will you, will you marry me?" He said it—the one thing that would shatter the rules that governed both their worlds and kept them separate.

She took a moment to absorb what he had just proposed to her. "My family, my life here at Downton has been the only home I've known for nineteen years. It will be difficult to leave here. I don't want to hurt my mother and father," she began. "But my place now is with you Tom. So my answer is yes I will marry you."

Branson stood up and offered his hand to help her up. "I don't know how and when we'll leave here, but we will do this together." He took her into his arms, their lips met in a joyful kiss. He spun her around.

They stayed together for another hour before Sybil had to get back to the house. The two lovers said their farewells, but this time each knew that soon they would be together. As he watched her walk across the great lawn in the faint light of the early morning, he remembered the first time he had seen Sybil Crawley—walking across this same lawn heading to Downton, book in her hand. He didn't know who she was or what awaited him at the end of the winding driveway. But in the last year or more he had discovered so much about himself, about his past. These experiences here and elsewhere, the people he met at Downton, all finally began to fall into place—he had prospects.

Far off in the distance, he could see that Sybil had almost arrived to Downton's front door. She turned around and waved. He waved back.

He set out to return home to his cottage. Branson breathed in the fresh morning air as he strode along. He felt whole, complete, even as the world around him was falling into chaos. As Yeats had written, Branson's heart did "bow, when dew—Is dropping sleep." It was love from of this remarkable young woman and his love for her that in the end had given him the stability he had yearned for. Life at last felt balanced.

_Fin_

* * *

><p><em>Although the character of Branson only shows up in three episodes in the first season, he's clearly written to be a catalyst for the changes that will shake up house's social order. He's an intriguing character to dissect and figure out what makes him tick. Julian Fellowes and crew leave lots of room for development—so what happens in DA2 should be fabulous. And it helps that Allen Leech does an extraordinary job with what is really a secondary character in DA1—I expect great things from this clearly very gifted actor. Mad props to him too!<em>

_Lastly I'm thoroughly jealous of all you folks in the UK who get to see the second season that's now in full swing. Those of us on this side of the pond will have to get it second hand until it shows up on our shores in January. My one consolation is I look forward to reading the new stories on this board that this new season inspires. Upwards!_

_*Robert Owen was a utopian socialist who founded the town of New Harmony, Indiana, USA._

_**George Lansbury was the editor of the Daily Herald at the time. Along with being pro women's suffrage, the newspaper was anti-war during WWI._


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